•?; 


HIKER  JOY 


BY  JAMES  B.  CONNOLLY 


JOY 

THE  U-BOAT  HUNTERS 
RUNNING  FREE 
HEAD  WINDS 
SONNEE-BOY'S  PEOPLE 
WIDE  COURSES 
OPEN  WATER 
THE  CRESTED  SEAS 
THE  DEEP  SEA'S  TOLL 
THE  SEINERS 
OUT  OF  GLOUCESTER 
JEB  BUTTON 
THE  TRAWLER 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


'  Couldn't  he  write  about  common  people — about  cops  and 
bums  and  sailors  and  crooks  and  places  where  reg'lar  peo- 
ple lived  ?" 


HIKER  JOY 


BY 

JAMES  B.  CONNOLLY 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS   BY 

N.  C.  WYETH 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  May,  1920 
COPYRIGHT,  191»,  1920,  BY  P.  F.  COLLIER  &  SON,  INC. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


How  IT  STARTED 3 

THE  JACK  o'  LANTERNS 6 

THE  LUMBER  SCHOONER 27 

ABOARD  THE  HORSE-BOAT 53 

THE  UNDERSEA  MEN 79 

GOOD-BYE  THE  HORSE-BOAT    ......  105 

THE  FLYING  SAILOR 132 

WIMMIN  V  GIRLS 159 

THE  NORTH  SEA  MEN 187 

LONDON  LIGHTS 214 

FINNY 242 


447941 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"Couldn't  he  write  about  common  people — about  cops 
and  bums  and  sailors  and  crooks  and  places  where 
reg'lar  people  lived  ? " Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

All  this  time  Bill  and  the  other  guy  are  dodging  and 

side-stepping 50 

"I  know  what  you're  thinking  of,  old  General,"  says 
Lefty.  "Your  dream  it  was  to  go — when  it  come 
your  time  to  go " 1 16 

The  ocean  just  sort  o'  breathing  in  on  the  sand — Bill  *n* 

me  sit  here  and  count  the  breaths  like  ....     240 


HIKER  JOY 


How  It  Started 

I'M  walking  along  this  place  outside  the  naval 
base  one  day  when  I  pick  up  a  lot  o'  nice  white 
sheets  of  paper  between  two  covers,  with  a  loop 
to  one  of  the  covers  and  in  the  loop  a  fountain  pen. 

Old  Bill  Green  is  with  me.  "There  y'  are, 
Hiker,"  says  Bill,  "with  the  two  main  ingree- 
jents  to  bein'  a  regular  author." 

I  ast  Bill  if  he  ever  knew  a  nauthor,  and  he 
said:  "There  was  one  lived  in  a  swell  flat-house 
where  I  used  to  haul  the  yashes  out  of  one  time." 

"What'd  he  look  like?"  I  says. 

"He  wasn't  one  to  expose  himself  to  no  vulgar 
gazes,"  says  Bill,  "and  so  I  never  seen  him,  but 
the  janitor  used  to  tell  me  how  at  nine-thirty 
every  morning  he'd  take  a  seat  in  front  of  the 
fireplace  in  velvet  slippers  an'  a  corduroy  coat 
an'  dope  out  about  places  'n'  people  he  never  saw, 
nor  nobody  else.  And  when  his  system  couldn't 
hold  any  more  dope  he'd  go  into  strict  seclusion 
and  write  what  his  wife  used  to  tell  the  janitor's 
wife  was  only  the  very  best  quality  of  litera- 
choor — never  nothin'  less  than  dukes  'n'  duchesses 
for  heroes  'n'  herrins." 

"Couldn't  he  a  wrote  about  common  people," 

3 


Hiker  Joy 

I  says,  " — about  cops  'n'  bums  V  sailors  'n' 
crooks  'n'  places  where  reg'lar  people  lived  ? " 

"Maybe  he  could,"  says  Bill,  "but  he  wouldn't 
get  by  near  so  easy." 

"Bill,"  I  says,  "could  a  fuhla  write  a  book  who 
ain't  a  nauthor — like  me  ? " 

"Why  not?"  says  Bill.  "All  kinds  o'  queer 
people  're  writin'  books,  so  why  not  you  have  a 
wallop  at  one  ? " 

"How  do  I  begin  ?"  I  asts. 

"How  do  you  begin  anything?  Spit  on  your 
hands  an'  go  to  it.  Tell  'em  first  how  we  come 
to  start  in  this  war  game.  But  if  you're  goin'  to 
have  it  printed  an'  be  a  best-seller,  you  wanter 
be  careful  who  you  knock.  Don't  knock  any- 
body 'less  they're  in  bad  with  everybody." 

"But  I  c'n  boost  people?" 

"Sure,  boost  'em — if  they're  in  right." 

"Generals?" 

"Generals,  sure.  And  admirals.  All  generals 
'n'  admirals  are  heroes,  dipso  facto,  meaning  by 
right  o'  their  jobs." 

"That's  all  right,  but  a  fuhla's  got  to  use  hard 
words  in  a  book;  an'  who'll  spell  the  hard  words  ?" 
I  says. 

"I'll  fix  up  any  wrong-spelled  words — I  mean 
o'  course  where  they  oughta  be  fixed  up,"  says 
Bill. 

4 


How  It  Started 

"How  about  the  grammar  part?5' 

"Grammar,"  says  Bill,  "and  spelling  're  good 
things  to  know,  same's  army  'n'  navy  regulations, 
but  not  to  be  stopped  by  when  the  order's  to  go 
forward.  D'  yuh  know  what  yuh  want  to  say?" 

"Sure  I  do,"  I  says. 

"Then  go  ahead  'n'  say  it  the  way  yuh  want 
to  say  it,  an'  forget  the  rest,"  says  Bill. 

With  grammar  'n'  spellin'  not  to  worry  about, 
it  looks  to  me  like  the  rest  of  it  oughta  be  pretty 
soft,  so  here  goes ! 


The  Jack  o'  Lanterns 

I'M  sitting  in  Battery  Park  one  morning  won- 
dering what's  become  of  Bill  Green,  when 
along  comes  Skinny  Winkler  and  asts  me  will  I 
run  away  from  home. 

That  was  easy,  me  having  no  home  to  run  away 
from.  So  "All  right,"  I  says.  "Where'll  we  run 
away  to  ?" 

"I  got  a  nuncle-in-law  in  Troy,"  says  Skinny. 

"Yes,"  I  says,  "an*  I  got  one  in  Brooklyn,  but 
a  lot  of  good  he  is  to  me ! " 

"Mine  keeps  a  butcher  store  on  the  main  street 
—a  fat  man." 

Which  sounded  pretty  good  for  the  eats  after 
we  got  there,  so  I  said:  "How'll  we  go — canal 
boat?" 

"Canal,  no!"  says  Skinny.    "Train." 

"No  train  for  me,"  I  says.  The  last  train  I'd 
been  was  a  Nindigent  Children's  Association  out- 
ing, an*  while  we're  all  but  passing  away  from 
hunger  they  make  us  sing  "In  the  Sweet  By  and 
By,"  besides  behaving  ourselves  before  they'd 
hand  us  out  the  glass  of  milk  'n'  sandwich  'n' 
half  a  pickle.  I  know  it  was  for  my  spirichal 

6 


The  Jack  o'  Lanterns 

benefit,  but  I  was  still  sore  on  train  trips  an'  I 
said  so  to  Skinny. 

Skinny  didn't  want  to  run  away  at  all.  He 
said  it  to  scare  me,  and  I  never  let  on  anybody 
could  scare  me;  though  they  could,  plenty  o9 
people — coppers  when  they  caught  me  swimming 
off  the  wrong  docks,  and  firemen  laying  hose. 
They're  the  boys,  the  firemen.  When  a  fireman 
says:  "JumP>  you  pigeon-toed  rabbit,  jump  be- 
fore I  run  over  yuh !" — when  he  does,  you  bet  I 
jump. 

I  leave  Skinny  arguing  about  trains  and  walk 
along  up-town  on  the  Yeast  River  side,  poking 
into  boxes  'n'  barrels  and  loafing  into  docks  when 
the  watchmen  'd  let  me,  till  I  come  to  Brooklyn 
Bridge  and  time  to  eat  again. 

I  had  a  nant  living  in  Brooklyn,  and  sometimes 
it  was  all  right  to  take  a  chance  there.  So  I  hiked 
over  the  bridge  and  fitted  in  for  supper  with  the 
kids,  and  I'm  thinking  it'll  maybe  all  right  for  a 
sleep  there  and  breakfast  in  the  morning,  when  I 
hear  a  voice  on  the  back  stairs.  It's  nuncle-in- 
law  with  one  of  his  usuals  talking  like  he  hadn't 
finished  a  nargument  with  somebody  about  four 
floors  below. 

He  comes  in  waving  a  nevening  paper.  I  try 
to  slide  it  from  him  to  get  the  baseball  dope,  but 
he  don't  let  go.  He  opens  it  up  and  shows  on 

7 


Hiker  Joy 

the  front  page  a  picture  of  a  man  with  his  fore- 
head split  and  his  face  all  powder-burnt.  It's 
Soover,  the  strong-arm  man  for  a  bunch  o'  Ger- 
man bombers. 

"They  had  him  once  and  he  got  away — a  dar- 
ing man.  A  smart  man,"  says  my  yuncle. 

Well,  maybe  it  was  smart  to  blow  up  a  place 
with  a  lot  o'  people  who  never  done  any  harm  in 
it,  ony  I  didn't  see  it,  but  not  liking  arguments  I 
didn't  say  anything. 

"There's  brainy  men  behind  Soover/'  says 
my  uncle — "the  police'll  never  get  'em." 

Maybe  I  don't  like  arguments,  but  I  don't  like 
things  all  one  way  either;  so  "How  do  you  know 
they  won't  get  them  ?"  I  says. 

"Because  they're  too  smart  for  any  police." 

I  didn't  see  where  that  was  any  answer,  but  I 
ony  said:  "They're  not  all  bums,  the  police.  An' 
you  better  be  layin'  off  that  kind  o'  talk  or  they'll 
be  gettin'  you  for  a  pro-German." 

He'd  been  washing  his  face  and  hands,  and  was 
wiping  them  in  the  kitchen  roller-towel.  He  hops 
around  on  me: 

"You  loafer,  you  pauper,  you  wharf-rat,  who're 
you  to  be  threatenin'  an'  advisin'  me  ? " 

By  this  time  it's  the  roller  and  not  the  towel  he 
has  in  his  hands,  and  there's  no  telling — some- 
times those  half-drunken  guys  land  a  lucky  one, 

8 


The  Jack  o'  Lanterns 

so  out  the  kitchen  window  and  down  the  fire- 
escape  I  go. 

I'm  bumping  along  the  street,  wondering  where 
I'll  bunk  out  for  the  night,  when  I  bump  into  the 
Jack  o'  Lanterns — a  crowd  o'  fuhlas  with  a  fine 
club  room  they  built  in  Tom  Hartnett's  back 
yard  outa  tarred  papers  and  laths  and  a  few  loose 
pieces  o'  scantling  they  picked  up  while  a  con- 
tractor they  knew  was  putting  up  a  government 
plant  on  the  river  front. 

There  could  be  ony  seven  members  in  the  Jack 
o'  Lanterns,  because  seven  is  a  mystic  number, 
meaning  a  lucky  number,  and  they  could  meet 
ony  at  night,  and  when  they  met  everybody  had 
to  sit  in  the  dark  till  somebody  who  wanted  to 
say  something  hollered  out: 

"Jack,  show  your  light!" 

And  when  he  did,  whoever  was  captain  had  to 
throw  the  flash-light  on  him  till  he  got  through 
talking,  the  other  six  listening  in  the  dark. 

Tom  Hartnett  had  the  flash-light  when  I  come 
along,  and  being  a  mystic  night,  the  eleventh  o' 
the  month  and  the  moon  coming  up,  they  were 
out  for  a  run.  They  ast  me  didn't  I  want  to  go 
with  Tom  Hartnett,  and  I  said  o'  course  I  did. 

The  pack  had  to  give  us  a  start  of  one  block, 
and  then  count  seventeen,  which  is  another 
mystic  number,  out  loud  and  all  together  before 

9 


Hiker  Joy 

they  could  start  after  us.    Those  things  were  all 
in  the  what  they  called  the  by-laws. 

So  the  two  of  us  go  dog-trotting  off,  but  once 
around  the  corner  we  broke  into  a  good  sprint. 
"They'll  count  that  seventeen  pretty  quick,  you 
bet,"  says  Tom,  "so  what  d'y'  say,  Hiker,  if  we 
cut  through  old  Loring's  alley  and  onto  the 
other  side  of  the  block  before  he  knows  what's 
up?" 

I  said  all  right,  and  we  waited  at  the  corner  of 
the  alley  to  give  the  pack  a  chance.  They  come 
running  around  the  corner,  yelling  "Jack,  Jack, 
show  your  light !"  and  when  they  did  Tom  flashed 
the  light  at  them. 

"Hi!  Hi!"  they  yelled  when  they  saw  it 
flash  in  the  dark,  and  came  yelping  up  the  street 
toward  us.  We  beat  it  up  the  alley. 

"Up  Loring's,  up  Loring's!"  we  could  hear 
them,  and  "Jack,  Jack,  show  your  light ! "  when 
they  came  to  the  corner  of  the  alley. 

Tom  flashed  it,  and  went  over  the  fence  and 
me  after  him  into  Loring's  yard.  There's  a  dog 
in  the  yard  tugging  at  his  chain  and  yelping;  and 
the  pack're  yelping  too.  It  was  dark  in  the  yard, 
but  not  so  dark  we  couldn't  see  old  Loring  poking 
his  head  out  of  a  window  and  yelling,  "Fire! 
Murder!  Police!"  Other  windows  were  be- 
ginning to  bounce  up  all  around. 

10 


The  Jack  o'  Lanterns 

"We'd  better  get  out  o'  here !"  says  Tom,  and 
we  slipped  through  Loring's  yard  and  up  the 
other  street,'  through  Liberty  Lane,  past  the 
lumber  piles  and  down  toward  the  river. 

I  took  the  lantern  and  we  trotted  along  easy, 
thinking  what  a  fine  lead  we  had  on  the  pack, 
when  we  see  them  coming  a  short  cut  through  a 
schoolhouse  yard,  and  climbing  the  fence  and 
calling  out  for  the  light. 

"Here  y'are,  yere's  y'r  light !"  I  says,  swinging 
it  in  a  circle,  and  then  to  Tom:  "You  go  ahead— 
I'll  get  you  at  the  next  corner."  And  to  show  the 
pack  they  wasn't  worrying  us  any,  I  flash  the 
light  twice  more  in  a  circle,  and  was  going  to 
flash  it  again  when  a  voice  says: 

"  Shut  off  your  light  and  make  less  noise  around 
here,  kid!" 

It  was  Beasly  the  copper's  voice,  and  when  I 
looked  around  I  see  him  standing  under  a  tree. 
There  was  another  man,  a  young  fuhla,  in  plain 
clothes,  standing  behind  Beasly,  and  he  said: 
"No  harm,  Beasly,  in  the  light.  Let  'em  flash  it." 
Then  to  me:  "But  a  little  less  noise,  son." 

"All  right,"  I  say,  and  ketch  up  with  Tom. 

"How's  that  for  a  hidin'  place — that  old 
house  acrost  the  street?"  says  Tom. 

It's  a  nempty  house,  with  the  windows  down- 
stairs all  boarded  up  and  the  windows  up-stairs 

II 


Hiker  Joy 

all  closed  in  with  blinds.    There  was  empty  land 
around  it  with  trees  in  front. 

Tom  hops  from  one  tree  to  the  other,  like  an 
Indian  on  the  war-path;  and  I  double  up  and 
hop  after  him  around  the  corner  of  the  house, 
till  we  come  to  a  cellar  window  with  the  glass  all 
busted  out  of  it.  It's  little,  but  Tom  squeezes 
in,  and  hangs  on  by  his  fingers  till  I  flash  the 
light  in  past  him  to  see  what  there  is  to  land  on. 
It's  a  dirt  floor  and  not  so  deep,  so  Tom  drops  in 
and  I  drop  in  after  him. 

It's  a  cold,  creepy-feeling  place,  the  kind  of  a 
place  a  fuhla  could  meet  ghosts  in,  and  I  say  so 
to  Tom. 

"Ghosts  !    Puh — there's  no  ghosts !"  says  Tom. 

"I  know  it,"  I  says,  "but  I  don't  want  to  meet 
any  just  the  same." 

We  flash  the  light  around,  and  there's  a  furnace 
all  rusty  and  a  pile  of  ashes  in  front  of  it,  and  a 
coupla  wooden  barrels — busted — and  a  galvanized 
iron  barrel,  and  a  door  leading  to  a  bin  for  wood 
or  coal.  A  reg'lar  kind  of  a  cellar  it  looked  like, 
and  I'm  just  going  to  swing  the  light  away  from 
the  coal-bin  when  I  spy  the  lock  on  the  door  of  it. 

"Have  a  look  at  that  lock,  Tom,"  I  whispers— 
we  been  whispering  all  the  time,  and  Tom  has  a 
look. 

"A  reg'lar  padlock,"  he  says. 
12 


The  Jack  o'  Lanterns 

"Sure  a  reg'lar  padlock,"  I  says — "but  a  new 
one.  Everything  else  in  this  cellar  looks  like  it's 
been  here  for  about  seventeen  years,  but  that 
lock's  bran'-new.  And  look — it  ain't  locked  a 
tall!" 

"That's  right,"  said  Tom.  "Let's  see  what's 
in  the  bin." 

He  pulled  back  the  door  and  I  flashed  the  light 
in. 

On  the  floor  nothing.  I  flashed  the  light  on  the 
sides — right  and  left.  Then  straight  ahead,  and 
when  I  did  !  Like  a  big  black  face  looking  out 
at  us  from  out  of  the  dark !  It  was  ony  a  hole  in 
the  wall  when  we  come  to  look  again,  but  for  a 
second  it  had  us  scared. 

Tom  backs  away.  "Let's  get  out — there  may 
be  somebody  in  there!" 

He  almost  had  me  going,  too,  but  I  stops  to 
dope  it  out:  "Somebody  musta  gone  in  there,"  I 
says,  "  'cause  there's  the  door  open  behind  us. 
But  he  couldn't  gone  in  there  without  a  light,"  I 
said.  "So  if  he's  in  there  we'd  see  his  light.  So 
how  can  he  be  in  there  now  ?  It  leads  somewheres. 
Let's  have  a  look!" 

It's  a  tunnel,  maybe  four  feet  high  and  two 
feet  wide.  We  walk  in,  me  flashing  the  light 
ahead.  We  keep  on  going  and  come  out  under  a 
wharf,  and  there's  a  ladder  running  down  a  wall 

13 


Hiker  Joy 

from  where  the  tunnel  comes  out  to  the  water. 
Looking  out  under  the  wharf  we  can  see  the 
Yeast  River. 

We  hunch  back  to  the  cellar  through  the  tun- 
nel, and  I  flash  the  light  around  the  cellar  to  see 
what  else.  Over  in  one  corner  is  a  flight  of  steps. 
"Let's  go  up  the  steps  and  into  the  house,"  I 
says. 

"No,"  says  Tom.  "Let's  get  out.  This  looks 
like  some  kind  of  a  crooks'  joint  to  me,  a  place 
for  pickpockets  or  somebody  to  be  hiding  things." 

"Pickpockets!"  I  says.  "A  pickpocket's  got 
to  be  full  of  coke  to  do  anything.  When  he  ain't, 
a  Salvation  Army  lady  major  with  a  trombone 
could  lick  three  of  'em  running." 

"But  burgulars?"  says  Tom. 

I  had  to  say  yes,  that  burgulars  're  different.  A 
burgular  takes  a  chance,  and  he's  got  sporting 
blood.  I  knew  a  burgular  one  time,  and  many  a 
quarter  he  slipped  me  before  the  police  got  him. 
But  pickpockets ! 

"Ghosts  maybe  got  me  bluffed,  Tom,"  I  said, 
"but  not  any  second-class  crooks.  Come  on." 

"Step  easy  then,"  says  Tom. 

We  had  rubber  sneakers  on,  but  we  stepped 
easy,  too,  going  up  the  steps  to  a  hall.  Off  one 
end  of  vhe  hall  we  see  another  flight  o'  steps. 
There's  a  nempty  room  near  the  steps,  a  small 


The  Jack  o'  Lanterns 

room  I  see  when  I  flash  the  light  around,  but  no 
chairs  or  table  or  anything.  Off  the  hall  on  the 
other  end  is  a  bigger  room,  and  that's  empty  too. 
We  go  into  the  big  room  and  flash  the  light  around. 

There's  a  boarded-up  window  with  a  little 
crack  of  moonlight  showing  through.  We  take  a 
peek  through  it,  and  there's  the  Yeast  River 
and  the  moon  well  up  over  the  river.  We  see  a 
wharf  that  we  think  is  the  one  the  tunnel  leads 
to,  and  while  we're  thinking  that  we  see  a  motor- 
boat  come  into  the  slip,  and  the  next  thing  we 
see  a  flash-light  giving  two  quick  winks  and  a 
long  one — three  times  it  did  that  coming  into 
the  slip.  Then  the  motor-boat  runs  under  the 
wharf. 

"Let's  get  out  o'  here,"  whispers  Tom. 

"Get  out  how?"  I  whisper  back. 

"The  way  we  got  in — the  cellar  window." 

"An'  meet  that  guy  who  signalled  comin'  out 
the  tunnel  maybe  ? " 

One  cracked  window  board  was  loose  down  be- 
low. We  could  a  busted  it  out  in  no  time,  ony  I 
think  I  hear  somebody  moving  overhead,  and  if 
I  do  we  mustn't  make  any  noise. 

We  keep  at  the  loose  plank  and  have  a  coupla 
nails  jounced  out  of  it,  and  most  room  enough 
for  Tom  to  slip  through,  when  we  hear  some  one 
coming  up  the  stairs  from  the  cellar.  Then  the 

15 


Hiker  Joy 

cellar  door  is  pushed  back  and  a  flash-light  shows 
into  the  hall,  and  behind  the  light  is  the  sound  of 
a  man  and  the  man  goes  through  the  hall  and  on 
up-stairs  walking  fast. 

I  creep  out  into  the  hall,  where  I  hear  some- 
body up-stairs  saying  something  and  then  chairs 
scraping.  I  wanta  have  a  peek  at  what's  going 
on  up  there,  and  I  say  that  to  Tom. 

"You  go  if  you  wanter,  but  not  me,"  says 
Tom.  "Just  as  soon  as  I  can  loosen  up  this 
board  to  wiggle  out,  wiggle  out  it's  goin'  to  be." 

I  step  out  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  I  can  hear 
sounds  from  up-stairs.  I  creep  up  on  the  stairs 
till  I  can  hear  them  pretty  good. 

"I  saw  him  myself — just  left  him,"  says  a 
voice. 

"And  is  he  safe?"  says  another  voice. 

"Oh,  he's  safe.  I  have  done  business  with  him 
before.  He's  bound  for  Norfolk,  but  he  will  go 
on  any  Cuban  port  I  name.  He  can  say  he  was 
blown  off  his  course  and  had  to  put  in  for  repairs 
or  water  if  he  is  questioned." 

"And  when  we  get  there?" 

"Your  troubles  will  be  over.  No  police  there 
asking  for  registration  cards." 

"And  how  do  we  get  home  from  there?" 

"More  ways  than  one.  By  one  of  our  U-boats, 
if  no  other  way." 

16 


The  Jack  o'  Lanterns 

"U-boats!  Jeezooks!"  I  slipped  back  down 
the  stairs  to  Tom,  who  is  still  working  on  his 
loose  plank,  and  tell  him  to  hurry  up  and  find 
Beasly.  "Tell  him  to  get  more  cops  an'  to  hurry," 
I  whispers.  "Tell  him  there's  a  U-boat  gang 
here  !  Tell  him  about  the  tunnel !  Slip  through 
the  cellar  winder." 

"Me  go  down  that  cellar!"  says  Tom — "an' 
maybe  one  of  'em  hiding  there !  In  about  ten 
seconds  more  I'll  be  slipping  out  through  this 
window,  watch  me  ! " 

"All  right,  but  hurry !  'nd  no  noise,"  I  says, 
and  slips  back  up-stairs. 

I  want  to  see  what  they  look  like,  and  this 
time  I  sticks  my  head  between  the  balusters. 
There's  a  little  light  coming  from  a  nopen  room, 
but  I  can't  see  them  yet.  There's  nothing  to  it 
but  snake  myself  along  the  hall;  so  I  inch  along 
on  my  hands  and  belly,  till  bimeby  I  c'n  see  into 
the  room  where  the  light  is. 

There's  a  shaded  candle  on  a  little  table,  and 
sitting  around  the  table  like  shadows  is — one, 
two,  three,  four,  five  men.  I  can't  see  their  faces 
because  the  candle-shade  is  throwing  all  the 
light  onto  the  table. 

The  guy  that  was  doing  the  talking  before  is 
still  running  the  show.  "It  may  be  two  days 
before  he  can  go  to  sea,"  I  can  hear  him  saying. 

17 


Hiker  Joy 

"It's  not  too  easy  for  even  good  ships  to  hold 
their  crews  in  these  days  of  war  wages,  and  his 
crew  deserted  almost  as  soon  as  he  tied  up  to  the 
dock  here." 

"Is  she  a  weatherly  ship  ?"  says  a  voice. 

"She  is  not  a  Vaterland,  Worts,  but  there's 
worse  than  she  going  to  sea  every  day.  At  any 
rate,  it's  the  only  way  for  you  two  to  get  out  of 
the  country  now." 

There's  little  points  of  light  growing  bright 
and  then  dull  in  the  dark  spaces  outside  the 
table,  meaning  they're  smoking.  All  but  one, 
and  that  one  is  getting  ready  to.  While  I'm  look- 
ing he  reaches  over,  takes  up  the  candle  and 
stoops  over  it  to  light  a  cigar  that  is  sticking  outa 
the  shadow  of  his  face. 

"Worts,  you  are  ready  to  leave  day  after  to- 
morrow on  the  Two  Friends?"  says  the  man's 
voice  with  the  most  to  say. 

"I'll  have  to,  I  suppose,"  says  a  voice. 

"And  you,  Soover?" 

Soover  ?  Soover  ?  Sure — the  picture  in  the 
paper  my  yuncle-in-law  waved  at  me  ! 

The  man  holding  the  candle  lifts  his  head.  "I'm 
ready  any  minute.  I'd  ship  in  a  sieve  to  get  out 
of  here  and  to  somewhere  where  I  can  walk  out 
in  daylight  again."  He  bends  down  toward  the 
candle  again,  the  light  draws  up  the  shade  to  the 

18 


The  Jack  o'  Lanterns 

end  of  the  long  cigar,  and  when  it  does  I  see  the 
cheeks  are  powder-burnt  and  there's  a  mark 
acrost  his  forehead  like  it  was  one  time  split  open. 

There's  no  argument — it's  Soover. 

"A  fine  bunch  o'  murderers  I  been  buttin' 
into!"  I  thinks,  and  begin  to  slide  backwards. 
I'm  half-way  down-stairs  when  Cr-c-k-k!  comes 
from  below. 

"Tom's  busted  out  the  plank!"  I  thinks. 

And  then  comes  a  Plak-k !  meaning  Tom's  let 
the  plank  fall. 

With  the  fall  I  hear  a  smash  on  the  table  up- 
stairs and  out  goes  the  light  from  the  room. 

There's  a  whispering  and  a  scraping — not  loud 
—of  chairs,  and  then  a  noise  of  men's  feet  mov- 
ing around  soft  like.  It's  a  cinch  they're  making 
for  the  stairs  that  I'm  at  the  foot  of.  I  think  of 
getting  away  through  the  loose  plank  and  the 
window,  and  then  I  says:  "No,  if  I  get  stuck  in 
it  I'm  gone." 

I'm  thinking  of  trying  the  cellar,  but  before  I 
do  they  come  rushing  down  the  stairs  and  through 
the  hall.  I  flatten  myself  against  the  wall,  and  I 
can  feel  them — one,  two,  three,  four — slip  past 
me  and  down  the  cellar  stairs. 

"No  cellar  for  you  now,  Hiker!"  I  thinks  then 
and  wait  for  the  fifth  one.  He's  so  long  coming 
that  I'm  wondering  did  I  count  them  right,  when 

19 


Hiker  Joy 

I  hear  him — not  him  but  the  noise  of  the  stairs 
creaking  under  him.  I  hear  the  noise  inching 
along,  inching  along,  and  next  I  hear  breathing, 
and  when  I  do—  "  You're  near  enough,"  I  says 
to  myself,  and  I  step  away  in  my  sneakers, 
wondering  to  myself  what  he's  staying  behind  for. 

The  answer  when  I  think  it  out  is:  "It's  to  get 
whoever's  in  the  house,  and  that  whoever  is  you, 
Hiker  Joy!" 

By  this  time  I've  felt  my  way  along  to  the  door 
of  the  big  room  off  the  hall.  I  peek  in  and  see 
where  the  low  half  of  a  busted  plank  is  gone 
from  the  window,  and  through  the  busted  plank 
the  moon  outside  is  making  a  nalley  of  light  on 
the  floor  of  the  room.  I  wondered  could  I  dive 
through  the  busted  place,  but  I  see  it's  too  tight 
for  me  without  time  to  wiggle  through,  and  while 
I'd  be  wiggling  through  there  was  the  guy  who 
stayed  behind,  and  a  sure  thing  he  had  a  nauto- 
matic,  because  all  those  yegg  guys  carry  them, 
and  they  don't  carry  them  for  watch  charms. 

I  felt  him  coming  after  me  down  the  hall.  The 
way  the  floor  sags  under  him  I  know  he's  a  big 
heavy  guy.  I  move  away  from  the  door  into  the 
room,  and  feel  my  way  along  the  wall  on  the  side 
away  from  the  window.  The  moonlight  comes 
half-way  but  not  all  the  way  acrost  the  room. 

I  keep  moving  along  the  room.  I  c'n  hear  him 
coming  after  me.  I  don't  have  to  see  him,  be- 

20 


The  Jack  o'  Lanterns 

cause  the  floor  keeps  creaking  under  him.  I 
come  to  a  corner  of  the  room.  It's  maybe  twenty 
foot  square,  the  room.  About  twenty  miles  square 
woulda  suited  me  better.  Near  the  corner  I  feel  a 
door-knob  and  I  have  a  hope,  but  the  door  is 
locked  when  I  try  it.  I  feel  him  getting  nearer, 
and  I  move  along  the  next  side  till  I  come  to  the 
next  corner.  I  stop,  and  he  stops,  so  I  know  he's 
been  hearing  me,  too,  all  the  time. 

He's  laying  quiet;  but  I  can  hear  him  breathing 
and  I  c'n  'most  see  his  arms  reaching  out  for  me 
in  the  dark.  I  don't  know  how  long  we  stand 
there  without  a  move,  maybe  ony  a  minute, 
maybe  ony  two  minutes,  maybe  an  hour,  but  long 
enough  to  make  me  feel  that  there's  dead  and 
buried  people  all  around  me. 

His  voice  busts  the  quiet. 

"I  got  yuh.  You  know  I  got  yuh.  Quit  and 
step  into  the  light.  Quit  and  maybe  I'll  let  you 
get  away." 

Maybe  I  woulda  quit  if  it  wasn't  whose  voice 
it  was — the  voice  of  the  guy  who  showed  his  face 
when  he  lit  his  cigar  in  the  light — the  guy  with 
the  powder  mark — Soover  ! 

"Come  out  in  the  light — I  know  wnere  yuh're 
standing.  Step  into  the  light  or  I'll  shoot!" 

I  don't  say  anything,  but  I'm  not  stepping  out 
— not  with  Mister  Soover  all  set  to  grab  me. 

It's  seven  or  eight  feet  to  the  strip  o'  light,  and 
21 


Hiker  Joy 

I  got  to  pass  it  to  get  away.  I'm  thinking  of  the 
cellar.  So  I  take  two  quick  steps  and  one  long 
high  jump  across  the  moonlight  streak.  And  as 
I  do  the  air's  busted  open  by  a  pistol-shot. 

I  don't  feel  anything  hitting  me,  so  I  keep  right 
on  going,  guessing  where  the  door  to  the  hall  is. 
Ony  one  shoulder  bumped  when  I  missed  it  a 
little,  and  across  the  hall  and  down  the  cellar  stairs 
I  go.  I  fall  down  the  stairs,  but  I  get  up,  flash 
the  light  around  to  make  sure  of  the  window; 
and  when  I  do  I  feel  what  I  know  is  the  end  of  a 
nautomatic  pressing  about  a  ninch  in  front  of  my 
right  ear,  and  there's  a  man's  arm  comes  under 
my  left  shoulder  and  hooks  around  my  neck  and 
presses  my  head  down.  He's  a  husky,  whoever 
he  is,  and  he  has  ony  to  keep  on  pressing  my  head 
to  break  my  neck,  or  he  can  press  the  pistol 
trigger  and  blow  my  head  off — take  his  choice. 

"That  gang's  come  back  through  the  tunnel 
and  I'm  gone!"  is  what  I  think. 

"Not  a  word  or  a  move !"  says  a  voice  in  my 
ear. 

"Do  you  notice  me  movin'  ?"  I  says,  and  when  I 
do  he  eases  off  his  arm  around  my  neck,  and  says : 
"Are  you  the  boy  they  call  Hiker?" 

"Who  else  could  I  be  ?"  I  says,  and  I'm  feeling 
pretty  good  because  it's  the  voice  of  the  man  who 
was  with  Beasly  under  the  tree. 

22 


The  Jack  o'  Lanterns 

"How  many  of  'em  here  ?"  he  whispered. 

"One,  and  he's  aplenty.  It's  Soover,  and  he's 
on  his  way  down  here,"  I  whispered  back. 

"Soover?    Good!    Give  me  your  light." 

I  pass  it  to  him. 

"Now  stand  clear." 

I  get  behind  the  old  furnace,  and  from  there  I 
hear  Soover  coming  down  the  cellar  steps.  At 
the  foot  of  the  steps  he  stops. 

"Where  are  yuh?"  he  says,  and  when  he  does 
the  guy  who  took  my  light  flashes  it  right  onto 
Soover' s  face,  and  when  he  does  Soover  jerks  his 
head  to  one  side  and  shoots,  and  when  he  does  the 
guy  who  nabbed  me  shoots,  once,  twice,  the  two 
almost  together,  and  down  goes  Soover. 

"One  would've  been  enough,"  says  my  fuhla, 
holding  the  light  on  Soover's  body,  and  when  I 
have  a  look  I  see  why.  Bing !  Bing !  two  bull's- 
eyes — one  over  each  eye. 

"A  tough  game  guy  all  right !"  I  said. 

"Tough  and  game  enough,  yes,  but  playing 
the  wrong  side,  and  we  had  to  get  him." 

"There  was  a  bunch  o'  men  went  through  the 
tunnel,"  I  says. 

"They  got  away  in  a  motor-boat." 

He  goes  up-stairs  and  whistles,  and  Beasly  and 
some  more  men  come  busting  through  the  win- 
dow, all  the  Jack  o'  Lanterns  behind  them,  and 

23 


Hiker  Joy 

they  look  all  through  the  house,  but  don't  find 
anybody  else. 

A  patrol-wagon  takes  Tom  Hartnett  and  me  to 
the  station,  and  in  the  wagon  with  us  is  a  lot  of 
coppers  that  the  last  time  I  saw  them  was  chasing 
me  down  alleys  and  over  back  fences,  and  now 
they're  smiling  and  telling  me  I'm  all  right.  I 
begin  to  see  what  a  lotta  difference  it  makes  to 
people  whether  a  guy's  a  winner  or  a  loser  in  the 
way  they  treat  him. 

At  the  police  station  I  want  to  have  a  good 
peek  at  the  man  who  got  Soover.  But  he  yain't 
there.  There's  another  guy  there  who  came  in  a 
big  blue  navy  auto  and  plain  clothes,  and  he  asts 
me  a  lot  of  questions.  When  he's  through  with 
me  he  turns  to  the  lieutenant  at  the  desk  and 
says: 

"We'll  locate  the  ship  and  get  them  and  what- 
ever stuff  they  have,  if  we  can." 

He  turns  to  me  then.  "Do  you  know  Bill 
Green?" 

"Which  Bill  Green?"  I  asts. 

"Oh,  a  sort  of  a  nold  bum  who  loafs  along  the 
water-front." 

"He's  not  so  old  and  he's  no  bum,"  I  says. 

"No?  Well,  he  doesn't  believe  in  regular 
work." 

"How  many  do,"  I  said,  "who  don't  have  to  ?" 
24 


The  Jack  o'  Lanterns 

"Where  do  you  live  ?"  says  the  navy  man  then. 

"Nowhere  special,"  I  says. 

"Let  me  take  you  there,"  he  says,  and  we  go 
out  to  his  auto. 

"The  city,"  I  says,  and  away  we  go  over  the 
bridge. 

"Who's  your  nearest  relative?"  he  asts  me  on 
the  way.  I  give  him  my  ant's  name  and  where 
she  lives.  He  writes  it  down. 

"Married  or  widow?" 

"Husband  V  six  children." 

"What's  the  husband's  first  name?" 

"That  bum  ?    Forget  him,"  I  says. 

We're  half-way  acrost  the  bridge  and  there's  a 
fat  bright  moon  hanging  over  the  river.  "What 
do  you  know  about  that  full  moon  ?"  he  says. 

"All  I  know  about  full  moons  is  that  they  rise 
in  Brooklyn  and  go  down  in  Jersey  City,"  I  says. 
"How  about  that  smell  o'  salt  air  driftin'  in  off  the 
Atlantic.  I  c'n  most  make  a  meal  off  it." 

"You  like  salt  water  ?  How  would  you  like  to 
go  a  cruise  with  Bill  Green?"  he  says. 

"Fine  business — when  do  we  start?" 

"Suppose  it  is  dangerous?"  he  says. 

"Suppose  it  is?"  I  says — "who's  to  worry  if  I 
don't?" 

At  the  New  York  end  of  the  bridge  I  get  out 
and  hike  down  to  where  there's  a  dry-goods  box 

25 


Hiker  Joy 

I  know  of  with  plenty  of  nice  dry  seckselsior  in  it, 
and  I  turn  into  it  feeling  it's  been  a  sorta  busy 
day,  and  maybe  more  busy  days  to  come  for  old 
Bill  and  me. 


26 


The  Lumber  Schooner 

THE  morning  after  the  Jack-o'-Lantern  run 
I'm  sitting  in  the  Battery.  It's  a  reg'lar 
kind  of  a  morning,  with  about  a  hundred  hoboes 
sunning  themselves  on  the  benches,  and  about  two 
hundred  tug-boats  V  barges  whistling  their  heads 
off  in  the  harbor,  about  a  million  people  coming 
in  and  outa  the  ferries,  and  a  yelevated  train  roar- 
ing by  every  minute  or  so  overhead. 

It  makes  a  fuhla  think  what  a  nawful  lot  is 
doing  in  New  York  and  what  a  nawful  lot  o* 
people  don't  have  to  be  doing  it,  me  being  one. 
And  I'm  sitting  there  thankful  and  watching  the 
sparrers,  who're  getting  thick  and  noisy  in  the 
trees  again;  and  watching  them  makes  me  think 
that  soon  I'll  be  able  to  take  a  quick  swim  off  a 
dock  somewhere  and  it  warm  enough  maybe  to 
let  my  pants  dry  on  me. 

There's  a  lot  o'  green  shoots  beginning  to  show 
on  trees  and  rows  o'  new  baby  carriages  being 
wheeled  out,  all  signs  o'  sure  spring.  It's  a  sun- 
shiny day,  and  everywhere  a  fuhla  looked  he 
could  see  New  York  kind  o'  sprouting  out  like. 
I'm  feeling  kind  o'  like  sprouting  out  myself. 

A  nold  fuhla  next  me  on  a  bench  is  reading  a 
morning  p?per  somebody's  left.  "I  see  the  Giants 

27 


Hiker  Joy 

is  striking  their  gait,"  he  says — "regular  mid- 
season  form.  And  the  Highlanders  doing  pretty 
well  too — for  them." 

"That  being  the  case,"  I  says,  "I  guess  the 
little  old  town'll  be  safe  for  me  to  leave  for  a 
while." 

The  old  fuhla  asts  me  what  I  think  o'  doing, 
and  I  tell  him  I'm  thinking  o'  putting  my  steam- 
yacht  in  commission  and  take  a  cruise  some- 
wheres,  to  the  West  Injer  Islands  maybe. 

"Don't  you  want  a  valley?"  he  hollers  after 
me,  and  I  say  no,  and  drift  along  to  where  there's 
a  navy  sailor  standing  outside  a  recruiting  place. 
I'd  seen  him  before — a  good  scout — and  I  say, 
"Hello,  chief!"  and  he  says,  "Hello,  and  what's 
under  your  hat  besides  a  lot  o'  hair  which  needs 
trimming  ?" 

"I  was  wondering  what  you  had  to  offer  in  the 
way  o'  wars  to-day,"  I  tell  him.  And  he  said 
there  was  something  doing  in  Messopotamia,  and 
India,  and  the  African  colonies,  and  a  fine  little 
war  going  on  in  France  and  Belgum  and  Italy. 

And  I  says:  "What' re  they  payin'  powder 
monkeys  ? "  and  he  says  no  powder  monkeys  any 
more. 

"How  about  drummer  boys?"  I  says,  and  he 
says  there's  no  more  drummer  boys  either. 

Then  I  tells  him  how  up  in  the  Yastor  Libr'y  I 
28 


The  Lumber  Schooner 

could  read  any  day  a  whole  shelf  full  o'  books 
about  powder  monkeys  V  drummer  boys  in  the 
Revolution  V  Civil  War  winning  battles  all  by 
themselves.  "  I  don't  think  such  a  much  of  your 
old  war,"  I  says. 

"I  know,"  he  says,  "but  we  got  to  take  what 
we  c'n  get  in  the  way  o'  wars  these  days.  O' 
course  you  had  breakfast  ? " 

And  I  says:  "Oh-h,  a  light  snack.  Grapefruit, 
bacon  'n'  eggs,  toast  V  coffee." 

And  he  says:  "Have  another  cup  o'  coffee  and 
a  plate  o'  beans  and  make  it  a  good  breakfast," 
and  slips  me  a  quarter. 

And  I  says:  "Thanks,  chief,  and  some  day  when 
you're  a  nadmiral  in  the  navy  and  I'm  mayor  o' 
New  York,  I'll  drop  down  in  my  Sedan  Ford  and 
pick  you  up  and  take  you  to  Del's  for  lunch." 

"Don't  forget,"  he  says. 

I  have  my  coffee  and  beans  for  fifteen  cents  at  a 
good  place  I  patronize,  and  I  drift  along  till  I  come 
to  what  they  call  a  caffey  in  the  Riverhead  Hotel 
down  the  Yeast  River  way.  From  inside  the 
swinging  doors  I  can  hear  a  voice — Bill  Green's — 
trying  to  talk  the  wine  clerk  into  a  drink,  but  the 
wine  clerk  keeps  right  on  polishing  his  glasses 
without  answering  him. 

"Anything  doin'  ?"  says  Bill,  seeing  me,  and 
I  slip  him  the  dime  I  have  left. 

29 


Hiker  Joy 

"It  will  buy  me  one  plate  o'  beans,"  says  Bill, 
"or  two  cups  o'  coffee.  But  what's  a  plate  o' 
beans  without  coffee,  and  what's  a  cup  o'  coffee 
—or  even  two  cups — without  beans  ? "  So  he  calls 
for  a  ten-cent  drink,  and  he  hold"  it  up  when  he 
gets  it  to  the  light. 

"War  is  sure  a  curse !  Lookit,  Hiker,  the  size 
of  it,  not  to  mention  the  quality." 

"Cut  that  stuff!"  says  the  wine  clerk.  "We'll 
manage  to  live  even  if  you  don't  buy  a  ten-cent 
drink  here  once  in  three  months." 

"Twice,"  says  Bill.    "I  was  here  yesterday." 

Then  he  pours  it  down  and  goes  over  in  a  cor- 
ner to  cough — it's  the  Longshoremen's  Elixir 
brand,  and  he's  still  coughing  when  a  man  comes 
in  and  sits  over  in  one  of  the  booths.  He's  a  tall, 
slim  man  with  all  white  whiskers  except  where 
the  tobacco  stains  showed. 

Bill  looks  him  over.  "He  reminds  me,"  he  says 
to  the  wine  clerk,  "of  a  nold  fellow  I  see  preach- 
ing a  new  kind  of  a  religion  off  a  soap  box  in  Union 
Square  one  time.  Would  he  be  good  for  a  dime, 
d'y'  s'pose?" 

"That  old  guy,"  says  the  wine  clerk,  '  '11 
give  up  a  dime  about  as  pleasant  'n'  easy  as  an 
eye  out  of  his  head.  He's  skipper  of  a  nold 
schooner  somewhere  in  the  harbor." 

People  keep  coming  and  going,  and  some  o' 
30 


The  Lumber  Schooner 

them  knew  Bill  and  they  say  hello  to  him,  and  he 
says  hello  to  them,  but  none  o'  them  was  buying 
for  him. 

"But,"  says  Bill,  "it's  a  short  day  that  don't 
turn  up  one  or  two  with  a  little  loose  change." 

Bimeby  a  swell-dressed  guy  with  a  plush  vest 
and  white  spats,  a  coat  with  tails,  and  a  tall  boy 
on  his  bean  comes  in  and  walks  up  to  the  bar 
without  even  looking  at  Bill. 

But  Bill  sees  him.  "Well,  well,"  says  Bill,  "if 
it — Cecil  Courtleigh,  is  it  not?" 

"That  is  my  name,"  says  the  swell  guy.  "But 
you  seem  to  have  the  advantage  of  me." 

"And  'ardly  to  be  wondered  at,"  says  Bill. 
"Owing  to  a  severe  haccident  to  the  'ot-water 
pipes  up  where  I  am  in  chambers,  I've  been 
compelled  to  forego  my  usual  bawth  and  shave 
for  the  laust  two  days,  and  also  it  must  be — let 
me  recall — yes,  it  must  be  fully  fourteen  yahrs 
since  we  said  farewell  in  Waterloo  Station  in  dear 
old  Lunnon." 

"Not,"  says  the  well-dressed  guy — "not  Wil- 
liam 'Enry  Green?" 

"The  sime,"  says  Bill. 

"Deah,  deah !    But,  I  say,  will  you  'ave " 

"I  will,"  says  Bill,  and  orders  a  brandy. 

"Brandy  is  sixty  cents  a  throw,"  says  the  wine 
clerk. 


Hiker  Joy 

"Tell  it  to  my  old  friend,"  says  Bill,  and  the 
wine  clerk  tells  him. 

"Did  I  awsk  the  price?"  says  Bill's  friend, 
and  the  wine  clerk  musta  needed  his  job  when  he 
didn't  bust  'em  both  with  a  bungstarter  after 
the  way  he  looked  at  'em. 

"Tell  me,  old  deah,  what  'ave  you  been  doing 
all  these  yahrs  ?"  says  Bill's  friend. 

"For  blue  mud's  sake — old  deah!"  says  the 
wine  clerk  up  to  the  ceiling. 

"Sundry  and  several  'ave  been  my  occupations 
of  late,"  says  Bill.  "For  yahrs  and  yahrs  I  fol- 
lowed the  sea,  and  often  'ave  I  thought  of  re- 
turnin'  to  it.  At  present,  'owever,  I  am  but  a 
wayfarer  on  the  'ighways  and  byways.  But  let 
us  speak  of  otha  things — of  the  old  days,  Cecil." 

They  went  over  and  talked  in  a  corner,  where 
it  looked  like  Bill's  friend  was  trying  to  argue 
him  into  something.  "No,  no,"  we  heard  Bill 
say,  "I  may  be  poor,  Cecil,  but  I  am  not  yet  a 
pauper.  No,  no — I  can  always  go  back  to  the 
sea  for  a  living." 

"Well,  if  you  won't,  you  won't,  and  there's  an 
end  on't,  as  some  beastly  clevah  man  once  said. 
But  you  will  lunch  with  me  ?" 

"Surely,  I'll  lunch  with  you,"  says  Bill. 

"Very  good.  At  the  place  I  spoke  of  a  bit  back, 
at  one  o'clock — and  'ave  a  smoke,  won't  you, 
old  top  ?"  and  slips  Bill  a  cigar  and  goes  out. 

32 


The  Lumber  Schooner 

"Yahrs  and  yahrs — of  all  the  four-flushing 
bums!"  said  the  wine  clerk. 

"Cease,  friend,  cease  thy  weary  prattle,"  says 
Bill,  "and  gimme  a  match  for  this  swell  smoke." 

"I'll  give  you  nothing!" 

"All  right— don't,"  says  Bill,  and  he  goes  over 
to  the  old  skipper,  who's  looking  at  him^over  his 
paper,  and  hits  him  up  for  a  match. 

The  old  skipper  passes  over  a  match,  and  then, 
as  Bill  is  lighting  up,  he  says:  "You've  followed 
the  sea?" 

"Eight  years  deep  water  'n'  four  years  coaster- 


inV 


"Well,  I'm  master  of  a  three-masted  schooner 
tied  up  over  in  Brooklyn.  How  would  you  like  to 
ship  in  her?" 

"What  cargo?"  asts  Bill. 

"Lumber." 

"What  wages?" 

"Let  us  talk  it  over,"  says  the  old  man,  and 
pushes  over  to  make  room  for  Bill. 

Bill  sits  in  and  they  talk  it  over.  A  coupla 
times  I  see  the  old  man  looking  over  doubtful 
like  at  me. 

"He  won't  eat  much,"  I  hear  Bill  say.  "And 
I've  a  sacred  trust  to  look  after  the  lad.  The 
last  words  of  his  surviving  male  relation,  his  dear 
kind  uncle-in-law,  to  me  before  we  left  his  home 
in  Brooklyn  was — I'll  never  forget  'em,  captain — 

33 


Hiker  Joy 

was  not  to  let  his  poor  little  orphan  nephew  be 
cast  adrift  on  the  rough  seas  o'  life." 

"Well,  it  does  you  credit,  and  he  can  help  the 
cook.  But  no  wages,  no  wages — only  his  keep, 
mind.  And  don't  be  late  at  the  dock." 

"We'll  not  be  late,  captain.  Come  on,  Hiker. 
And,  barkeep,  save  a  little  o'  that  sixty-cent 
brandy  till  I  come  back,  will  yuh  ?" 

"Go  drown  yuhself,  will  yuh?"  said  the  bar- 
keep. 

"Maybe  I  will,"  says  Bill,  "without  meanin' 


to." 


I  strolled  out  with  Bill,  who  goes  in  to  telephone 
somewhere,  and  coming  out  from  there  speaks 
about  a  bite  to  eat,  which  is  talk  I  always  like  to 
hear.  "But  how  about  lunching  with  that  Eng- 
lish guy  ? "  I  says. 

"Camoflooje,"  says  Bill,  and  leads  the  way  into 
a  pretty  good-looking  restaurant  for  him  and  me 
to  be  going  into,  and  there's  a  head  waiter  think- 
ing along  the  same  line  too,  I  guess,  for  he  never 
stops  standing  between  us  and  the  door  all  the 
time  we're  eating.  But  when  the  time  comes, 
Bill  pulls  a  five-dollar  bill  easy  and  careless  like 
before  the  waiter  when  it's  time  to  settle. 

Outside  the  door  Bill  slips  me  another  five- 
dollar  bill,  saying:  "You  'n'  me,  Hiker,  we've 
shipped  for  a  cruise,"  and  I  said  all  right,  and  we 

34 


The  Lumber  Schooner 

strolled  along  again  till  Bill,  who  is  looking  up  at 
doorways,  says:  "Here  we  are!"  and  leads  the 
way  to  where  there's  a  lot  of  offices  and  the  swell- 
dressed  guy  with  the  spats  is  sitting  at  a  desk 
in  one  o'  them.  He  winks  to  let  me  know  he 
knows  me,  and  "Dijjer  'ook  'im?"  he  says  to 
Bill. 

"  'Ooked  'im,"  says  Bill,  and  we  pass  on  to 
where  there's  a  man  looking  like  he  had  nothing 
to  do  but  sit  at  a  desk  and  eat  caramels  out  of  a 
box. 

It's  the  man  who  took  me  over  the  bridge  in 
his  auto  the  night  before,  ony  now  h'es  in  a  blue 
uniform  with  four  gold  stripes  on  his  sleeve.  He 
points  to  a  coupla  chairs  and  shoves  the  caramels 
toward  me,  saying:  "Help  yourself,  son." 

I  help  myself,  and  every  time  he'd  look  at  me 
and  then  at  the  box  I  help  myself  again. 

Captain  is  what  Bill  calls  him,  and  they  talk  a 
while,  me  eating  caramels  and  listening.  Bimeby 
the  captain  says: 

"We  could  get  them  as  they  go  aboard,  or  take 
them  off  the  schooner  down  the  harbor,  but  we'd 
have  tough  work  making  out  a  case  without  the 
paper  evidence,  and  that  old  skipper  has  probably 
already  hidden  any  documents  they're  taking — 
in  some  old  hole  aboard  his  packet  where  we 
couldn't  find  them  in  a  month's  hunt  with  a 

35 


Hiker  Joy 

squad  of  men.  So  you  and  Hiker  go  to  sea  with 
them  and  stay  with  them  to  the  end." 

"To  the  end — meaning  no  matter  what  I  have 
to  do  to  stick?"  says  Bill. 

"Meaning  everything.  Meaning  to  the  end,  if 
you  have  to  kill  the  last  one  of  'em,"  says  the 
captain,  and — "Good  luck  to  you  both !"  and 
shakes  hands. 

"As  near's  I  c'n  make  out,"  I  says  to  Bill,  when 
we're  out  on  the  street  again,  "he's  one  o'  those 
Secret  Service  guys." 

"Sorta,"  says  Bill.  "Navy  Intelligence,  they 
call  him.  And  now  let's  find  our  lumber  schoon- 


er." 


We  find  her — a  white,  three-masted  schooner 
named  the  Two  Friends,  over  to  a  wharf  in  Brook- 
lyn. We're  barely  aboard  when  a  taxi  rolls  up, 
and  out  jumps  two  men.  Across  the  dock,  onto 
the  vessel's  deck,  and  down  the  cabin  ladder  they 
go — wh-s-t — like  wind  whistling  by. 

"Cast  off!"  calls  out  the  skipper. 

Bill  and  another  man  cast  off  the  lines  from 
the  dock,  a  tug  hauls  us  into  the  river  and  down 
the  harbor.  It  was  late  afternoon  before  the  tug 
turned  us  loose  outside  a  place  with  a  sloping 
hill  and  our  flag  on  top  of  a  high  pole.  A  fort 
somebody  says  it  is;  and  before  we  lose  sight  of 
it  we  hear  a  bugle  calling  from  it  and  we  see  the 


The  Lumber  Schooner 

flag  come  tumbling  down.  It  was  almost  dark, 
and  a  soft  little  wind  was  blowing,  and  the  bugle 
sounded  fine.  After  that  the  sun  went  down  in  a 
lot  o*  colors  behind  the  Jersey  shore. 

It  grew  dark,  and  I  wanted  to  stay  up  atop  of 
a  lot  o'  railroad  ties  on  deck,  to  feel  and  see  what 
I  used  to  read  about  in  the  books  up  to  the 
Yastor  Libr'y — of  dark  night  coming  down  on  the 
great  ocean;  but  the  cook,  who's  a  big  black  guy, 
he  comes  and  says: 

"Ah  say,  boy,  is  yo'-all  gwine  to  cut  up  dat 
squash  or  is  yo',  befo'  yo'-all  goes  to  baid  ?" 

I  cut  up  the  squash,  and  it  took  me  all  next 
day  to  get  over  being  seasick.  After  that  I'm  all 
right.  The  cook's  easy  on  me.  All  I  have  to  do 
is  wash  the  dishes  for  the  cabin  people,  and  not 
too  many  of  'em,  for  the  trouble  with  the  cooking 
part,  the  cook  said,  wasn't  to  cook  things — it  was 
to  get  things  to  cook. 

The  second  day  out  Bill  comes  around  after 
looking  the  ship  over.  "Of  all  the  well-wracked 
old  packets!"  says  Bill.  "She  musta  had  a 
lucky  christenin'  to  ever  stayed  afloat  so  long." 

I  didn't  know  much  about  packets,  young  or 
old,  but  I  know  Bill's  not  easy  worried,  so  I  have 
a  look  at  her  myself.  The  wind  was  behind  her 
at  the  time,  and  she  was  sliding  through  the 
green  water  like  a  sled  through  slush.  Shish-sh-sh  ! 

37 


Hiker  Joy 

I  could  hear  her  going,  me  looking  down  over  her 

bow. 

•. 

But  everything  was  all  right  with  her  till  the 
fourth  day.  The  wind  slewed  around  that  day, 
and  when  it  did  the  rigging  pulled  so  hard  that 
the  planks  on  what  they  called  the  windward  side 
begin  to  loosen  up. 

The  next  thing  is  she's  leaking. 

Next  thing  the  wind  comes  stronger  and  her 
planks  begin  to  get  looser.  Then  the  skipper 
put  her  on  what  they  called  the  other  tack,  and 
when  he  did  the  planks  on  that  side  begin  to 
loosen  up,  which  makes  the  planks  on  both  sides 
loosened  up  now,  and  the  crew  plugging  away  at 
the  pumps. 

Somebody  got  to  wondering  why  the  two  pas- 
sengers didn't  take  a  turn  at  the  pumps,  and 
somebody  else  says  he  heard  the  skipper  say  they 
were  making  the  trip  for  their  health.  Which 
made  the  first  guy  say:  "A  hell  of  a  ship  an'  trip 
for  their  health  !" 

The  water  kept  coming  on  so  fast,  and  the 
crew  were  kicking  at  so  much  pumping,  that  the 
skipper  runs  her  off  before  the  wind.  Sailing 
that  way,  her  planking  didn't  come  so  loose,  but 
sailing  that  way  she  begins  to  steer  like  a  runaway 
horse.  There's  a  good  wind  blowing  and  her 
bow  goes  first  to  one  side  and  then  to  the  other. 

38 


The  Lumber  Schooner 

I  was  up  atop  o'  the  piles  watching  her.  Every 
couple  o'  minutes  she'd  make  a  dive,  and  when 
she  did,  what  they  called  the  flying  jib-boom  went 
out  o'  sight  into  the  ocean,  and  when  it  came  up 
it  threw  water  back  all  over  the  piles,  and'  I  had 
to  leave  or  get  half  drowned. 

When  I  came  jumping  down,  Bill  is  standing  at 
the  galley  door.  He'd  just  come  from  a  turn  at 
the  wheel,  and  he's  swapping  a  chew  o'  tobacco 
for  a  nextra  cup  o'  coffee  with  the  cook,  and  he's 
saying  to  the  cook: 

"She's  doin'  pretty  well  up  to  date,  but  let 
one  o'  those  hoboes  that  pass  for  seagoers  aboard 
here  get  hold  o'  that  wheel — let  one  o'  them,  and 
let  her  broach  every  once  in  a  while,  and  one  o' 
these  whiles  she'll  broach  good  !" 

I  turned  in,  and  waked  up  by  being  bounced 
out  o'  my  bunk  and  up  against  a  bunk  on  the 
other  side  of  what  they  called  the  foc's'le. 

"Hove  down,"  said  Bill's  voice  in  the  dark 
near  me.  "The  poor  old  lobster-pot,  she's  cap- 
sized herself." 

We'd  kept  all  our  clothes  on  that  night  turning 
in  and  we  don't  have  to  stop  to  dress,  but  hustle 
right  away  for  the  deck,  and  while  we're  climb- 
ing up  the  ladder  there's  tons  of  water  come  pour- 
ing down.  When  we  get  on  deck  'most  every- 
body's there  ahead  of  us.  We  don't  see  them 

39 


Hiker  Joy 

all,  but  we  c'n  hear  them  calling  on  heaven  'n' 
hell  and  everybody  to  tell  'em  what's  happened. 
Those  of  them  that  ain't  in  the  rigging  are  perched 
up  on  the  high  rail.  Bill  'n'  me,  we  take  to  her 
rigging. 

"She's  on  her  beam  ends,"  says  Bill — "look 
out  yuh  don't  get  washed  overboard !" 

I  looked  out  I  didn't.  Everybody  looked  out 
they  didn't,  I  guess. 

Morning  come,  and  when  it  did  we  could  see 
she  was  lying  on  her  side  and  a  sea  more  white 
than  green  was  rolling  up  to  her,  rolling  up  and 
licking  the  railroad-ties  on  her  deck,  that  now 
stood  'most  straight  up  and  down. 

Her  three  masts  were  'most  flat  out  on  the 
water,  each  of  'em  rearing  up  and  lying  down  with 
every  roll  of  the  vessel,  and  every  time  the  masts 
would  lift,  the  big  sail  to  each  of  them  would  fill 
up  round  and  fat  with  water  rolling  up  under  it. 
Bimeby  the  water  come  roaring  in  under  one  of 
the  sails  and  pressed  it  away  up  till  it  looked  like 
a  balloon,  and  when  it  did — Boom !  it  went  like 
the  sunset  gun  at  the  fort  where  the  flag  was  the 
first  night  out.  And  bimeby  the  other  two  went 
—Boom  !  Boom  ! — the  same  way. 

A  mast  cracked;  and  then  the  second;  and 
bimeby  the  last  one — cracked  off  down  near  the 
deck — and  when  they  did  the  sea  pulled  them  away 

40 


The  Lumber  Schooner 

from  the  vessel;  but  not  far,  because  the  parts 
of  the  rigging  clinging  to  them  would  pull  'em 
back,  and  when  they  came  back  they  came  fly- 
ing, and — Bam  ! — the  broken  ends  of  'em  come 
smashing  up  against  the  railroad-ties  on  her 
deck. 

Next  thing  the  ties  broke  loose.  They'd  been 
drifting  away  one  or  two  together  before  this, 
but  now  away  they  go  in  bunches.  Some  we  could 
see  floating  for  miles  away  on  the  sea,  but  some 
couldn't  get  away.  They'd  drift  off  a  little  ways 
like  the  masts  and  then  back,  riding  atop  of  the 
white  waves,  and  up  against  the  deck  they'd 
come,  sometimes  one  end  up  in  the  air  pointing 
straight  at  us  on  the  high  rail.  When  they  fell 
short  o'  the  rail,  it  was  a  good  bet  they'd  smash 
through  the  planking  just  under  the  rail. 

The  captain  was  straddling  the  rail  and  like 
most  o'  the  rest  of  'em  he's  getting  tired  of  dodg- 
ing the  ties.  "Somebody  lash  those  ties  or  cut 
'em  loose  altogether  !  Who'll  volunteer  ? " 

Nobody  volunteered  till  Bill  got  tired  of  it,  too. 
Then  he  looks  around  and  asks  for  the  loan  of  a 
knife.  One  of  the  passengers  passes  him  a  knife. 
"Come  on,  Hiker!"  he  says — "you  c'n  swim 
good." 

A  couple  more  join  us  then,  and  with  pieces  of 
line  about  us  we  let  ourselves  down  into  it,  and 


Hiker  Joy 

we  cut  away  the  tangled-up  ties  and  turn  'em 
loose.  Not  all  of  'em,  though. 

"Our  quarter  boat  is  stove  in,  save  enough  ties 
for  two  rafts,"  said  the  skipper;  and  we  did, 
lashing  'em  together  with  pieces  of  loose  down- 
hauls,  halyards,  and  sheets.  There  was  some 
loose  planks  on  her  deck,  too,  and  the  skipper 
said  there  was  hammers  and  nails  in  the  wind- 
ward locker  in  the  cabin.  I  go  down  and  get  'em, 
the  cabin  'most  filled  up  with  water,  and  Bill 
nails  enough  boards  across  ties  to  make  a  coupla 
good-sized  rafts,  which  we  make  fast  to  the  high 
rail  and  climb  back. 

We're  hardly  back  on  the  rail  when  the  passen- 
ger who'd  loaned  the  knife  calls  to  Bill:  "Give 
me  back  my  knife !"  Bill  says  he  didn't  have  his 
knife,  and  he  didn't.  He'd  give  it  to  me  when  he 
began  to  nail  on  the  planks  to  the  raft,  and  I'd 
skewered  it  through  my  inside  shirt,  and  I'm 
reaching  in  to  pull  it  out  and  pass  it  back,  when 
Bill  gives  me  the  high  sign  to  let  it  stay  where 
it  is. 

The  man  says  again:  "Give  me  my  knife !"  and 
I  got  a  good  ear  for  voices  and  I  have  a  good  look 
at  him.  His  voice  is  the  same  as  one  I  heard  in 
the  haunted  house — the  one  answering  to  the 
name  of  Worts. 

Worts  makes  so  much  noise  over  the  knife 
42 


The  Lumber  Schooner 

that  the  skipper  tells  one  of  the  crew  to  hand 
over  his  knife,  which  he  does,  and  Worts  is 
quiet. 

The  skipper  then  says  there's  some  canned 
goods  in  a  storeroom  off  the  galley,  and  for  us 
to  butt  in  the  door  and  get  'em.  Bill  and  me 
bust  in  the  door,  the  cook  standing  by  to  help,  and 
I  haul  the  stuff  off  a  shelf  which  is  under  water. 
There's  canned  beef  and  cans  o'  pears  'n'  pine- 
apples— the  last  two  something  special  the  skipper 
had  been  saving  for  the  cabin,  so  the  cook  whispers 
to  Bill. 

The  skipper  passes  them  out,  a  can  o'  beef  V 
a  can  o'  some  kind  o'  fruit — pears  or  peaches — to 
each  one  of  us;  which  left  him  and  each  o'  the 
passengers  three  apiece.  We  stuffed  them  inside 
our  shirts. 

The  seas  come  whiter  and  more  higher,  an'  the 
old  schooner's  planks  get  looser  'n'  looser.  Her 
deck  begins  to  break  up  and  pine  boards  to  float 
out  from  her  insides.  They  said  she  had  a  half- 
million  feet  of  'em.  I  guess  she  had,  though  how 
much  that  is  I  don't  know,  for  before  she  got 
through  coughing  'em  up  it  looked  like  a  man 
could  walk  a  mile  on  the  boards  that  was  float- 
ing away  from  us. 

Bimeby  she  begins  to  waller;  and  when  she 
does  we  climb  aboard  the  two  rafts  and  shove 

43 


Hiker  Joy 

off  from  her.  Bimeby  she  gives  a  good  roll,  and 
this  time  she  comes  keel  up.  And  stays  there. 

While  all  this  was  going  on  the  sun  had  come 
up,  and  gone  high  up,  and  now  it  was  going  down. 
It  grew  dark,  we  hanging  onto  our  rafts.  And 
all  through  the  night  we  hung  onto  them.  When 
morning  came — and  no  sun  with  it — we're  still 
there,  the  two  rafts  of  us  bouncing  up  and  down 
on  a  nocean  that's  still  more  white  than  green. 

That  day  the  sea  goes  down  with  the  sun,  and 
that  night — ony  for  it's  a  little  too  cool  for  peo- 
ple with  not  too  much  clothes  on — we  make  out 
fine.  And  next  morning  it's  pretty  smooth, 
which  gives  Bill  a  chance  to  look  after  the  cap- 
tain, who'd  broke  his  leg  climbing  on  the  raft 
when  we  left  the  ship. 

On  the  raft  with  Bill  V  me  V  the  captain  was 
the  two  passengers,  but  the  passengers  were  keep- 
ing over  to  one  side  of  the  raft  without  ever  a 
word  out  o'  them  about  how  the  captain  was  mak- 
ing out.  Bill  V  me  eased  the  old  man's  leg  when 
we  could,  but  we  couldn't  stop  the  raft  rolling 
and  lifting;  and  it  was  the  rolling  and  lifting 
which  was  wearing  him  out,  he  said.  He  couldn't 
eat  much,  and  when  he  did  it  wouldn't  stay  on 
his  stomach.  That  musta  weakened  him,  too, 
because  he  took  to  talking  of  his  end  being  near; 
and  then  he  begins  to  pray,  calling  on  his  Maker 

44 


The  Lumber  Schooner 

to  forgive  him  that  ever  he  had  forsook  in  his 
old  age  the  narrer  path  for  the  sake  o'  gain. 

"The  trouble  with  the  poor  old  guy,"  whispers 
Bill,  "is  he's  only  half  a  villain,  and  lettin'  his 
early  piety  upset  him  now." 

The  moaning  and  praying  of  the  captain  wor- 
ries one  o'  the  two  passengers — the  one  I  knew 
for  Worts.  The  other  passenger  don't  say  any- 
thing. He's  a  tough  guy.  He  eats  his  canned 
beef  and  drinks  his  fruit  juice  and  looks  around 
like  he's  waiting  for  whatever's  coming  next. 

But  not  Worts.  "If  he's  going  to  go,  why 
doesn't  he  die  and  quit  his  yapping  ? "  says 
Worts.  "And  those  crazy  ones  on  the  other  raft !" 
he  adds  to  that. 

A  piece  o'  halyard  is  holding  our  raft  and  the 
other  raft  together.  They're  maybe  a  hundred 
feet  apart,  so  we  can  easy  see  what  they're  doing 
on  the  other  raft.  It  was  chill  us  up  at  night  and 
the  sun  'most  boil  our  brains  out  by  day,  so  none 
of  us  on  our  raft  was  feeling  any  too  lively;  but 
they  looked  to  be  feeling  it  worse  on  the  other 
raft.  We  can  hear  them  telling  of  how  hungry  'n' 
thirsty  they  are ! 

The  darky  cook  gets  up  and  begins  to  sing. 
And  then  to  preach.  He  had  a  voice  would  fill 
Battery  Park  easy. 

"De  ship  am  at  de  landin' !"  he  bellers.    "An' 

45 


Hiker  Joy 

she  am  loaded  wid  angels !  Who's  agwine  abo'd 
de  ship  wid  all  dem  angels  ? "  He  takes  a  look 
around  his  raft,  fixin'  his  eyes  on  one  after  the 
other  of  'em.  "Ah  say,  bredren,  who's  agwine 
abo'd  de  ship  wid  all  dem  angels  ?  Is  you,  brud- 
der  ?  Is  you  ?  Is  you  ? "  pointing  a  finger  at  one 
after  the  other.  Then  he'd  start  bellering  all 
over  again:  "De  ship  am  at  de  landin'  an'  she 
am  loaded  down  wid ' 

"That  dam'  nigger!"  says  Bill— "he'll  get 
everybody  nutty.  Here  you — you  pop-eyed, 
camp-meetin'  shouter — quit  your  ballyhooing  and 
sit  down !" 

The  cook  sat  down;  but  he'd  orter  sat  down 
sooner.  Right  away  we  saw  the  mate,  who  used 
to  walk  around  deck  on  the  schooner  talking  to 
himself — the  mate  jumps  to  his  feet  and  calls 
out: 

"I  see  my  father !  I  hear  his  voice  !  His  boat 
is  waiting  to  take  me  ashore!"  and  he  walks 
stiff-legged  off  the  raft  and  overboard,  and  goes 
straight  down  without  coming  up  once. 

That  got  to  Worts,  on  our  raft.  He  got  up,  and 
with  the  sailor's  knife  the  skipper  had  got  for 
him  that  time,  he  cut  the  other  raft  away  from 
our  own.  We  drifted  apart. 

That  night  I  had  a  pretty  good  sleep.  When  I 
woke  up  in  the  morning  I  notice  the  captain  is 
stretched  out  flat. 


The  Lumber  Schooner 

"He's  getting  a  sleep  in  too,"  I  says  to  Bill. 

"Yes,"  says  Bill,  "a  good  long  one." 

"What  come  over  him?"  I  ast  Bill. 

"He  was  moaning  away  last  night,  and  I'm 
sitting  with  my  back  against  his  sorta  holding 
him  up,  and  he's  moaning  and  moaning,  and 
then  he  stops  moaning  and  calls  out:  'What  time 
is  it?' 

"  'I  left  my  wrist-watch  ashore,'  I  says,  'but 
by  the  slant  o'  the  Big  Dipper  I'd  say  it's  about 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning.' 

"  *  Three  o'clock  ?  I  shall  not  live  to  see  the 
dawn!'  he  says  in  a  low  voice.  And  in  a  little 
while  he  goes  on  again:  'Thieves,  murderers,  and 
all  manner  of  villains  have  I  chosen  for  my  con- 
sorts. The  Lord  put  a  curse  on  Jonah's  ship,  the 
Lord  put  a  curse  on  my  ship.  Green !' 

"  'Here,  sir!'  I  said,  and  waited.  But  he  didn't 
speak  again.  His  back  slid  away  from  my  back, 
his  head  bumped  on  the  raft.  That  was  all." 

"Meanin'  he's  dead,  Bill?" 

"Dead,"  said  Bill,  "and  no  helping  it  now. 
Sit  in  and  have  a  bite.  He  left  two  cans  o'  beef 
and  two  cans  o'  pineapple  behind  him.  Only  he 
was  the  captain  and  his  leg  broken,  I'd  'a'  taken 
some  o'  the  yextra  grub  off  before  this.  And  if 
I  had  anything  to  fight  'em  with,  I'd  'a'  gone 
over  to  those  two  passengers  and  battled  'em  for 
some  o'  their  yextra  grub." 

47 


Hiker  Joy 

We  had  a  bite,  and  Bill  says  he's  feeling  a  lot 
better,  and  from  his  inside  pocket  he  hauls  out  a 
long,  soft  leather  pocket-book.  "I  found  it  in 
the  captain's  pocket,"  says  Bill,  and  opens  up  the 
pocket-book.  There  were  some  bills  and  receipts 
in  one  part.  Bill  puts  them  back.  Next  there 
was  a  little  book — like  what  they  call  a  diary. 
Bill  read  to  himself  out  of  it.  He  opens  the  next 
part,  and  there's  paper  money  there — some  small 
bills  first,  and  then,  wrapped  up  inside  the  small 
bills — ten  hundred-dollar  bills.  . 

"Wel-1-1!"  says  Bill,  and  slips  them  back  into 
the  pocket-book  with  the  diary  into  his  inside 
vest  pocket. 

The  passengers  were  watching  Bill  all  the  time. 

"That  money,"  says  Worts,  "belongs  to  me." 

"Holding  it  in  trust  for  you,  was  he?"  says 
Bill. 

"Yes,"  says  Worts,  thinking  Bill  meant  it 
maybe.  "But  you  can  keep  the  money  if  you 
give  me  the  diary." 

Bill  didn't  answer  him,  because  just  then  we 
hear  a  yelling  from  the  guys  on  the  other  raft. 
One  o'  them  is  standing  up  and  pointing.  We 
look  where  he's  pointing,  and  there's  smoke.  A 
long  way  off,  but  it's  smoke. 

The  two  passengers  look  at  it,  and  then  they 
look  over  to  Bill. 


The  Lumber  Schooner 

"What  do  you  say — keep  the  money  and  give 
me  the  diary?"  says  Worts. 

"I  dunno,"  says  Bill;  and  has  a  look  at  the 
smoke,  which  is  growing  a  little  thicker. 

"If  the  steamer  people  picks  us  up/'  says  Worts, 
"I  shall  have  them  take  the  money  from  you." 

"Maybe,"  says  Bill,  "and  yet  maybe  they 
won't.  I  kinda  think  I'll  hang  onto  the  money 
and  the  diary  too." 

Worts  has  his  sailor's  knife  in  his  hand.  He 
turns  to  the  other  passenger  and  says  some- 
thing to  him.  The  other  passenger  listens  and 
nods  and  nods  and  takes  the  knife  when  Worts 
offers  it  to  him  and  stands  up  and  heads  our  way. 
And  when  he  does  I  slip  the  knife  I  been  hiding  to 
Bill,  saying:  "He's  a  tough,  hard  guy,  Bill,  but 
he's  got  nothing  on  you — go  to  him !" 

"I'll  go  to  him,"  says  Bill,  "but  you  keep  the 
other  one  from  buttin'  in." 

Worts  stands  up  and  watches  'em.  Soon  he 
runs  acrost  the  raft  to  get  behind  Bill,  and  when 
he  does  I  stick  out  my  foot  and  he  trips  and  falls 
near  the  edge  of  the  raft.  Before  he  can  get  up  I 
give  him  a  shove  overboard. 

When  he  comes  up  I  see  right  away  he  yain't 
much  of  a  swimmer.  He  grabs  at  the  raft  like 
he's  afraid  it'll  get  away  from  him,  and  starts  to 
climb  up  on. the  raft,  and  when  he  does  I  shove 

49 


Hiker  Joy 

him  back.  Then  he  grabs  my  hand  and  over- 
board I  go,  and  when  I  do  I  keep  right  on  going 
and  dive  under  and  grab  his  leg  when  he  starts 
to  climb  up  again.  He  falls  back  again  into  the 
water. 

When  I  come  up  again:  "Next  time  I'll  pull  y' 
under  and  hold  y'  under  and  drown  yuh !"  I  says 
to  him,  and  he  don't  try  to  get  atop  o'  the  raft 
any  more,  but  hangs  onto  the  yedge  of  the  raft 
watching  me. 

All  this  time  Bill  and  the  other  guy  are  dodging 
and  side-stepping,  watching  a  chance  to  get  in 
swipes  o'  their  knives.  The  knives  are  the  same 
kind,  the  kind  sailors  wear  from  their  belt,  with 
about  a  six-inch  blade.  They  make  a  tough- 
looking  pair  all  right,  their  faces  swelled  up  from 
the  salt  water  V  the  sun,  their  lips  all  cracked, 
and  their  eyes  away  back  in  their  heads.  And 
about  a  week  o'  whiskers  on  them.  The  other 
guy  looked  to  be  in  better  shape  than  Bill,  'cause 
Bill  had  been  putting  away  booze  and  taking  it 
pretty  easy  before  coming  aboard  the  schooner. 

But  Bill  was  stepping  around  on  the  raft  more 
like  a  man  used  to  having  the  sea  bob  up  and 
down  under  him.  There  were  holes  between  the 
ties  and  planks  in  places,  which  Bill  didn't  make 
the  mistake  o'  stepping  into.  The  other  guy 
steps  into  a  hole,  but  not  deep  enough  to  put  him 
down.  But  bimeby  he  goes  into  one  good  and 

50 


The  Lumber  Schooner 

deep,  and  when  he  does  and  his  arms  fly  up  to 
make  him  keep  his  balance,  Bill  is  in  and  on  him. 
Into  his  neck  for  six  inches  goes  Hill's  knite. 

He  sags  down  from  his  knees,  sticks  there  a 
second,  flops  over  onto  his  face  and  chest  without 
a  word  out  of  him.  Bill  makes  sure  he's  dead, 
and  then:  "Another  tough  one  gone,"  he  says, 
and  I  climb  onto  the  raft. 

"We'll  be  saved  a  few  alibis  if  we  get  rid  o* 
these  people,"  says  Bill  then,  and  rolls  the  dead 
guy  overboard.  "He  went  crazy  and  jumped 
overboard,"  says  Bill — "get  me?"  And  I  said  I 
got  him. 

He  stepped  over  to  Worts.  "You  get  me  too  ?" 
Worts,  looking  up  from  the  edge  of  the  raft,  said 
yes. 

"Good  !"  said  Bill.  "Now  we  got  to  dump  the 
old  skipper  over.  I  don't  like  to,  but  I  gotta. 
It's  war  times — tough  days.  He  went  crazy,  too, 
mind,"  and  rolls  the  skipper  over.  Out  o*  sight 
he  goes  too. 

Bill  looks  at  Worts,  and  Worts  looks  at  Bill. 
"No,  I  yain't  going  to  kill  yuh,"  says  Bill — "not 
yet.  And  maybe  I  won't  kill  yuh  a  tall.  But  you 
got  a  belt  under  your  shirt,  and  I  want  it.  Give 
up." 

Bill's  knife  is  up  against  Worts's  neck.  Worts 
looks  toward  the  smoke  coming  toward  us. 

"That  steamer,"  says  Bill,  "ain't  near  enough 


Hiker  Joy 

yet  for  'em  to  see  what  we're  doin'.  Speak 
quick." 

Worts  takes  off  the  belt  and  Bill  buckles  it 
under  his  shirt.  Then  he  sticks  his  knife  against 
Worts's  neck.  "No  talkin',  mind." 

"No,"  says  Worts. 

"Good!" 

"He  quit  easy  enough,"  I  says  to  Bill. 

"He's  the  foxy  kind,"  says  Bill— "and  the 
foxy  kind  never  did  like  to  die." 

The  steamer  gets  nearer.  She  goes  to  the  other 
raft  first,  taking  them  off  in  a  boat  to  the  steamer. 
Then  the  boat  comes  for  us.  It  gets  nearer  and 
Bill  nudges  me  and  whispers:  "There's  Nugent 
in  that  boat!" 

"And  who's  Nugent  ?"  I  whispers  back. 

"Nugent,"  says  Bill,  "is  the  guy  got  Soover." 

There's  a  man  rowing  in  the  bow  of  the  boat 
and  looking  at  us  over  his  shoulder.  He  stands 
up  and  steps  onto  the  raft.  He  steps  over  to 
Worts;  then  he  turns  and  says  to  the  man  steering 
the  boat:  "I'll  have  to  carry  this  man,  I  think." 
And  when  he  says  that  I  get  his  voice,  and  it's 
the  voice  of  the  leader  of  the  gang  in  the  hanted 
house. 


Aboard  the  Horse- Boat 

WHEN  I  get  along  this  far  with  my  book  I 
pass  it  over  to  Bill  and  ask  him  how  it 
is  so  far. 

"Your  grammar  V  spellin'  is  fierce,"  says  Bill, 
"but  that  can  be  cooked  up.  But  here's  some- 
thing before  yuh  go  any  further.  You  got  a  nold 
bum  here  an'  it  looks  to  me  like  yuh're  tryin'  to 
make  him  out  to  be  a  sorta  hero." 

"Meanin'who?" 

"Meanin'  me.  An'  yuh  can't  do  it.  All  model 
heroes  're  six  foot  tall  an'  straight's  a  narrer,  an' 
look  at  me.  An'  their  words  an'  their  finger  nails 
're  both  manicured.  Take  another  peek  at  mine. 
An'  no  boy  who  smokes  ciggies  can  be  any  hero. 
In  fact  I  doubt,  indeed  it  is  not  possible,  that 
any  true  hero  coulda  ever  even  felt  like  smokin' 
or  chewin'  when  he  was  a  boy,"  says  Bill. 

"What  d'y'  spose  he  felt  like  doin'?" 

"Nothin' — less  it  might  be  to  utter  noble 
sentiments  to  the  great  edification  of  a  lot  of  other 
model  boys  an'  old  maids  an'  maybe  bachelors. 
No,  no,  the  best  a  nold  bum  like  me  or  a  little 
wharf  rat  like  you  can  do  is  to  make  out  other 
people  to  be  heroes." 

53 


Hiker  Joy 

"Who  in  this  book?" 

"Nobody  special,  because  we're  movin'  from 
one  place  to  another,  and  you're  puttin'  what 
happened  into  the  shape  o'  stones.  An'  me  bein' 
your  litery  adviser  I  got  to  tell  yuh  that  the 
first  an'  last  thing  in  a  story  is  not  to  forget  the 
story.  The  Yastor  Libry  is  crowded  with  four 
'n'  five  an'  six-hundred  page  best-sellers  that 
could  a  been  told  in  twenty  pages  and  the  tired 
reader  not  miss  anything.  From  the  Yarabian 
Nights  to  old  Homer  and  all  the  way  down,  the 
good  story  tellers  never  loafed  too  much  once  they 
started  to  tell  a  story,  so  lay  off  too  much  talky- 
talky  an'  don't  try  to  make  yuhself  out  too  wise 
a  guy  in  tellin'  your  story.  But  for  a  hero— 
what's  the  matter  with  Mr.  Nugent  for  a  hero  ?" 

"But  he's  no  hero— he's  a  nevery-day  reg'lar 

guy." 

"Well,  it's  the  ony  kind  o'  guys  we  know,  then 
I  guess  those're  the  kind  o'  guys  you'll  have  to 
pick  yer  heroes  from.  But  if  you  bring  in  Mr. 
Nugent  don't  forget  the  girl  on  the  ship,  'cause 
girls  're  part  o'  life  too,  just  as  much  as  bartend- 
ers an'  cops  an'  lumber  schooner  captains." 

"But  what  do  I  know  o'  girls  ?" 

"What  do  a  lot  of  people  know  who  write 
about  'em  ?  You  can  put  down  what  you  saw  an' 
heard,  can't  yuh  ?  But  maybe  yuh  better  not 

54 


Aboard  the  Horse-Boat 

worry  about  any  heroes.     If  there's  any  around 
they'll  pop  up  in  spite  of  yuh." 

So  not  having  to  watch  out  for  any  heroes 
here's  what  I  saw  and  heard  aboard  the  hoss- 
boat,  meaning  the  ship  that  picked  us  up  off  the 
raft. 

It  was  a  steamer  with  five  or  six  hundred  hosses 
and  a  lot  of  freight  for  somewhere  in  England, 
which  picked  us  up,  and  about  all  any  of  us  did 
for  the  next  coupla  days  was  to  eat  and  sleep, 
eat  and  sleep,  and  have  another  drink  of  water 
every  time  we  happened  to  think  of  it. 

All  but  old  Bill.  A  tough  guy,  Bill.  Most  of 
us  were  feeling  kind  a  rocky  from  being  so  long  on 
the  raft,  but  not  Bill.  He  moves  around  the  ship 
bumming  smokes  'n'  chews  from  the  deckhands 
V  hossmen  just  like  there  was  never  a  thing  the 
matter  with  him.  Looking  too  good  I  guess  he 
was,  because  the  first  officer  comes  to  him  our 
third  day  aboard  and  says: 

"Green,  the  ship  is  short-handed.  You  seem 
to  be  rather  a  healthy  person,  and  being  so  I  shall 
have  to  arsk  you  to  step  below  and  stand  a  regular 
watch  at  coal-passing,  knowing  of  course  that 
you  will  be  glad  to  do  it  in  return  for  your  keep." 

Nobody  notices  where  Bill  was  so  glad,  but  he 
goes  below  and  shovels  coal  with  a  gang  that  was 

55 


Hiker  Joy 

mostly  some  kind  o'  Yeast  Injuns,  with  not  enough 
clothes  on  'em  any  time  to  put  in  the  wash  if 
they  ever  took  anything  to  the  wash,  which  Bill 
said  they  didn't. 

"A  fine  job  for  a  white  man,"  says  Bill,  "and 
a  fat  chance  we'll  any  of  us  have  down  there  if 
she's  torpedoed  !" 

It's  three  or  four  days  before  Bill  begins  to 
show  life  again.  In  between  times  I'm  beginning 
to  look  healthy,  so  they  had  put  me  to  work  too. 
Helping  out  in  the  galley  and  crew's  messroom 
was  my  job;  and  I'm  at  that  but  off  watch  and 
up  on  the  top  deck  with  Bill  one  morning,  when 
one  of  the  deck  gang  named  Denton  sticks  a 
corner  of  his  head  out  of  the  wireless  shack  and 
spots  Bill  'n'  me,  and  "What  in  the  name  o' 
Gawd  are  you  doing  here,  matey?"  he  says  to 
Bill. 

"O,  just  gazin'  at  the  sea  'n'  sky,"  says  Bill. 

Denton  was  the  man  who  I  thought  had  a 
voice  like  the  leader  of  the  tunnel  gang  in  Brook- 
lyn when  I  heard  him  first  on  the  raft,  but  now 
it  ain't  the  same  voice  a  tall.  Being  wrecked  and 
four  days  on  the  raft — it  maybe  made  a  difference 
in  my  hearing. 

"I  have  been  looking  at  the  blooming  sea  and 
sky  for  most  of  my  mortifying  life,"  says  Denton, 
stepping  nearer  to  Bill,  "and  what  there  is  in 

56 


Aboard  the  Horse-Boat 

them  to  be  gazing  at  I  never  could  see.  Now — 
there  is  something  to  look  at !" 

It  was  a  nempty  soap-box  about  half  a  mile 
away;  and  while  we're  looking  there's  a  gun  goes 
off  from  a  deck  below  us  and  we  see  white  water 
thrown  up  this  side  the  soap-box  and  then  a  shell 
go  hopping  over  it,  and  curving  around  while  it's 
hopping  till  it  sinks. 

"He's  at  it,  the  skipper,"  says  Denton,  "with 
his  navy  gun  and  his  navy  gun  crew.  Innocent 
enough  we  look  until  some  day  some  undersea 
boat  comes  to  the  top  thinking  we  are  as  inno- 
cent as  we  look,  and  then : !  A  five-inch  shell 

she  will  find  in  her  insides  then." 

"Well,  why  not?"  says  Bill.  "The  guy  who 
said  everything's  fair  in  love  'n'  war — I  never 
notices  where  he's  been  panned  for  his  ideas  by 
the  great  'n'  virchuss  public." 

"All  is  fair  in  war — I'm  with  you  there.  But 
hellish  inventions  for  all  that,  those  U-boats,  or 
shouldn't  you  say  so,  matey?" 

"Hellish?  Sure  they  are,"  says  Bill.  "An' 
so's  bombs  'n'  gas  'n'  fifteen-inch  guns  too,  but  a 
funny  kind  of  a  war  it  will  be  when  the  yenemy 
runs  it  to  suit  us,  hah  ?" 

"O  yes,  but  the  inhuman  U-boats,  matey  ? 
Up  from  the  bottom  of  the  blue  sea  they  come  like 
terrible  monsters,  and  send  shiploads  of  people — 

57 


Hiker  Joy 

good  people  quite  often — to  their  death.  Fright- 
ful, frightful,  is  war  to-day/* 

"When  was  it  sweet  'n'  lovely?"  says  Bill. 
"I  was  readin'  up  in  the  Yastor  Libry  one  day 
of  the  roar  a  lot  o'  guys  let  out  of  'em  one  time 
about  six  or  eight  or  maybe  it  was  a  thousand 
years  ago  because  another  lot  o'  guys  come  along 
with  a  new  invention  called  gunpowder  and  blows 
their  old  city  walls  into  Harlem  somewheres. 
'A  ninvention  o'  the  evil  one  and  should  be  for- 
bidden I9  say  the  first  guys.  'No,  no,  science  'n' 
progress  !'  say  the  second  bunch  o'  guys. 

"Another  rainy  day,"  goes  on  Bill,  "I  was 
readin'  of  a  bunch  of  savages  with  bows  'n' 
arrers  who'd  been  havin'  it  pretty  soft  with  a  lot 
of  other  savages  who  had  ony  blow-pipes  'n* 
assegais.  Bimeby  a  lot  o'  white  people  come 
along  with  rifles  an*  machine  guns.  And  then 
what  a  yell  the  bow  'n'  arrer  guys  let  out  a  them- 
selves !  'Those  white  folks — they  got  no  sport- 
ing blood  cleaning  us  up  like  that!'  says  the  bow 
'n'  arrer  lads. 

"I  used  often  to  wonder,"  goes  on  Bill,  "if 
those  jungle  people  ever  drawed  up  resolutions 
again'  the  use  of  the  white  folks'  rifles,  and  shipped 
'em  to  the  war  councils  of  London  an'  Paris  an* 
Berlin;  and  if  they  did,  what  happened  the 
resolutions." 

58 


Aboard  the  Horse-Boat 

"Or  Washington?"  says  Denton,  very  polite- 
like. 

"Jeepers  !  Can't  yuh  let  a  man  be  a  patriot  ?" 
says  Bill.  "But  yuh  got  to  hand  it  to  the  Prus- 
sians for  a  few  things.  I  was  reading  one  day " 

"In  one  of  their  own  papers  was  it?"  says 
Denton.  "Read  their  papers  and  a  lot  of  truth 
you'll  learn  about  the  Prussians !" 

"What's  wrong  with  'em  anyway  ?"  asts  Bill. 

"Traders  and  politicians  !"  says  Denton.  "Al- 
ways preaching  of  their  own  high  virtue,  and  se- 
curing most  of  the  money  and  bodily  comfort 
in  the  world,  goes  to  prove,  of  course,  that  they 
practise  all  they  preach.  O  surely !  Go  by  them 
and  you  would  think  'twas  only  the  Prussians 
were  fighting  this  war  for  Germany.  Never  a 
word,  or  if  there  is  a  word  it  is  a  scant  one,  and 
by  way  of  showing  how  impartial  they  are,  at 
what  the  others  in  the  Empire  are  doing.  O  aye, 
a  grand  lot,  the  Prussians !" 

"You  love  'em,  don't  yuh  ?" 

"I  know  them,  and  when  we  know  people  and 
still  do  not  like  them  what  does  it  mean  ?  But 
let  us  forget  the  Prussians.  How  do  you  like 
your  work  and  your  Lascar  watch-mates  be- 
low?" 

"They're  all  right,"  says  Bill,  "ony  tryin'  to 
start  a  game  o'  conversation  'nd  breathin'  the  very 

59 


Hiker  Joy 

finest  quality  o'  Welsh  coal-dust  at  the  same  time 
—it  do  give  a  man  a  nawful  thirst." 

Denton  slips  a  flat  pint  bottle  from  inside  his 
shirt  to  Bill. 

"I  thought  I  noticed  a  nabnormal  development 
of  your  left  lung,"  says  Bill.  "Well,  here's  to 
your  Prussian  friends.  May  they  lie,"  says  Bill— 

"In  the  deepest  blackest  dungeons  of  the  deep  black  sea 
Where  the  devil  fish  bury  their  dead ! 

M-m-m — smooth  'n'  oily  that  stuff,  boy." 

"Not  bad.  A  drop  of  extra  special  I  keep  for 
my  friends.  And  there's  always  a  drop  of  it 
whenever  you  feel  like  drinking  to  that  toast 
again,  matey." 

"I  can  easy  see,"  says  Bill,  "where  Pll  have 
them  devil  fishes  fed  up  on  Prussians  before  ever 
we  get  to  port." 

"How  do  you  dope  him,  Bill?"  I  ast  when 
Denton  moved  off. 

Bill  reaches  down  and  feels  around  his  waist. 

"After  ev'ry  time  I  been  with  him  I  look  to  see 
if  I  still  got  that  belt — that's  how  I  dope  him," 
says  Bill.  He  meant  the  belt  he  killed  the  guy 
on  the  raft  to  get.  "He's  lived  in  England  and 
he's  lived  in  our  country,  but  what  is  he?"  says 
Bill.  "I  dunno;  but  a  smooth,  tough  guy, 
that's  sure.  And  Mr.  Nugent  thinks  the  same." 

60 


Aboard  the  Horse-Boat 

"A  wonder  you  don't  turn  that  belt  over  to 
Mr.  Nugent  an*  have  it  put  in  the  ship's  safe?" 
I  says. 

"S'pose  we're  torpedoed  and  no  time  to  get 
to  the  safe  ?  S'pose  Mr.  Nugent  don't  trust  some 
o'  the  ship's  officers  ?  An'  s'pose  he's  got  the  two 
passengers  to  look  after  besides  ?" 

We  had  two  passengers  aboard,  one  of  them  a 
young  lady,  Miss  Rush. 

"Mr.  Nugent  sure  does  keep  an  eye  on  Miss 
Rush,"  I  says. 

"Who  wouldn't,"  says  Bill,  "at  his  age  an'  in 
his  place  ?  But  don't  never  bet  a  nickel  on  what 
you  think  he's  doing,  Hiker.  It's  a  lovely  game, 
the  Secret  Service,  and  the  man  or  woman  gets 
hooked  into  it  is  done  for  anything  else.  But 
Nugent's  all  right.  And  he  knows  what  he's 
doing  aboard  here." 

It  was  time  for  me  to  get  below  and  be  setting 
the  table  for  the  deck  gang's  lunch.  They  came 
along,  and  when  they  did  they  were  all  talking 
about  the  target  practice  that  morning. 

"Gettin'  to  it  is  the  old  man,"  says  Den- 
ton. 

"Aye,  he's  the  lad  will  strafe  'em  proper," 
says  another. 

"And  strafe  'em  in  a  new  fashion — no  rammin' 
'em  this  time,"  says  Denton. 

61 


Hiker  Joy 

"I  wish  he'd  sink  a  hundred  of  'em,  the  blarsted 
murderers !" 

"Aye,  you  'ave  the  right  idea,  mate.  The 
baby-killers  !  I'd  give  a  pound  of  my  wages  this 
minute  to  be  one  of  that  gun  crew  when  they 
sight  a  U-boat." 

And  none  of  'em  had  any  more  to  say  about  the 
Germans  than  Denton,  only  he  always  called 
them  Prussians. 

That  same  night  Bill  came  off  watch  at  twelve 
o'clock.  A  tough  watch  he  said  it  was,  with  the 
ship  pitching  'n'  rolling,  and  the  air  below  like 
some  kind  o'  glue,  and  he  could  feel  his  teeth 
chewin'  coal-dust  he  said,  and  a  long  time  before 
this  cruise  since  Bill  had  been  doing  what  they 
called  reg'lar  work.  So  now  he  comes  up  to  his 
bunk  in  a  little  room  that's  a  deck  below  the 
water-line,  with  no  windows  or  places  for  the 
air  to  come  in  except  a  door  leading  into  a  narrer 
passage. 

"A  lovely  place  to  recooperate  in,"  says  Bill, 
looking  in,  and  he's  still  looking  in  when  Denton 
comes  along.  "My  room  is  a  little  better," 
says  Denton.  "How  about  a  bit  of  a  chat  and 
a  drop  of  extra  special  for  a  change  ?" 

Bill  goes  up  and  they  have  a  few  nips,  and  Bill 
goes  to  his  own  bunk  feeling  refreshed.  He  sleeps 
fine,  so  fine  that  the  man  calling  him  to  go  on 

62 


Aboard  the  Horse-Boat 

watch  again  had  a  tough  time  waking  him. 
When  Bill  woke  up  the  belt  was  gone  from  around 
his  waist. 

Next  day  Bill  tells  Mr.  Nugent  how  he  come  to 
lose  the  belt.  "I  was  beginnin'  to  feel  myself 
about  the  wisest  guy  on  earth,  an'  I  oughta  known 
—at  my  age — and  got  set  for  the  bump  that's 
always  come  to  me  when  I'm  feelin'  that  way." 

Mr.  Nugent  ain't  the  kind  to  bawl  a  man  out 
when  it  don't  do  any  good.  "Whoever  took  it," 
says  Mr.  Nugent,  "has  hid  it  before  this,  where 
we  won't  find  it  in  a  hurry.  His  job  now  will  be 
to  get  it  ashore.  But  every  man  in  this  ship  will 
be  well  searched  before  he  is  allowed  to  land. 
It  is  Denton  who  has  it,  or — possibly — Worts, 
though  Worts  says  he's  with  us." 

"Worts,"  says  Bill,  "will  be  with  whoever 
scares  him  the  most." 

That  same  day  I'm  on  the  top  deck  after  lunch 
wondering  if  I'm  ever  going  to  smell  land  and  hav- 
ing a  peek  at  Miss  Rush,  who's  listening  to  what 
the  first  officer's  got  to  say  to  her  on  the  bridge; 
and  while  I'm  watching  them  I  hear  the  lookout 
hail  something,  and  see  the  first  officer  and  the 
other  officers  put  their  glasses  to  their  eyes. 
Bimeby  some  of  the  crew  who  come  up  on  deck 
can  see  it  without  glasses — the  smoke  of  a  bunch 
of  steamers  ahead  of  us.  Bimeby  again  they  make 

63 


Hiker  Joy 

out  it's  a  fleet  of  British  warships.  One  of  them 
— a  long  low  little  one  with  a  row  of  smokestacks — 
comes  boiling  toward  us.  A  destroyer  she  is, 
and  we  fly  a  string  of  flags  to  her  and  she  flies  a 
string  of  flags  to  us  and  turns  quick  around  and 
leaves  us. 

We  get  nearer  to  the  bunch  of  warships.  At 
battle  manoeuvres  they  were,  somebody  said. 
And  it  was  great  to  see  them,  first  going  all  one 
way  at  full  speed,  and  then  all  going  the  other 
way.  And  then  a  bunch  this  way  and  a  bunch 
the  other  way,  all  reg'lar  as  policemen  parading 
Fifth  Avenue.  And  the  smoke  is  pouring  out  of 
'em  in  great  puffs,  first  from  one  and  then  from 
another,  sometimes  from  three  or  four  together. 
And  their  bows  'n'  sterns  are  boiling  the  ocean  all 
white  around  'em. 

All  at  once,  from  being  bunched  in  one  place, 
they  come  apart  and  race  off  every  which-way. 
All  but  one  ship.  The  others  keep  on  going  full 
tilt  away,  and  we're  all  wondering  what  it  means, 
when  we  see  them  swinging  lifeboats  out  from  the 
ship  that's  standing  still. 

"It's  abandon  ship  drill,"  says  somebody. 

"Drill  the  devil!"  says  a  voice — Denton's. 
"She's  torpedoed!" 

And  so  she  is.  Bimeby  we  can  all  see  her  stern 
is  lower  than  her  bow.  Then  we  can  see  the 


Aboard  the  Horse-Boat 

boats  jammed  with  men  being  lowered  to  the  water 
and  rowing  away  from  her.  Her  stern  goes  lower 
and  lower,  and  the  sea  conies  up  over  it,  and  then 
there's  little  splashes — splashes  and  splashes- 
close  in  to  her.  Those  were  men  jumping  into 
the  sea  when  there's  no  room  for  them  in  the 
boats.  Her  stern  goes  away  under,  her  bow 
rises  up,  she  twists  a  little  and — it's  all  over  with 
her. 

There's  hundreds  of  'em  drowning,  and  some 
of  our  crew  thought  the  other  warships  oughta 
be  picking  them  up  and  said  so. 

"And  lose  another  ship  or  two  and  another 
thousand  men  or  two  by  another  torpedo  or  two 
while  they're  at  it !  It's  admiralty's  orders," 
says  Den  ton. 

"And  no  tellin'  how  many  more  o'  them  under- 
sea dogs  are  'angin'  around  'ere !" 

"And  if  theirselves  don't  pick  'em  up,  'ow  can 
they  be  expectin'  us  to?" 

Our  own  ship  was  already  steering  zigzag 
corners  at  full  speed  away  from  there,  and  the 
deck  gang  were  swinging  the  lifeboats  out  over 
our  side.  I  watched  them,  saying  to  myself: 
"Hiker,  for  the  rest  of  this  trip  it's  no  sleeping 
below  'n'  runnin'  round  in  dark  passageways 
when  maybe  one  of  those  little  old  torpedoes  is 
gettin'  ready  to  come  aboard  for  you.  No  sir, 

65 


Hiker  Joy 

it's  one  of  those  lifeboats  for  you  to  bunk  in  and 
be  handy  to  something  will  float/' 

I'm  thinking  of  that,  and  watching  Denton 
who's  rubbing  tallow  on  the  falls  of  one  of  the 
lifeboats  after  the  others  had  done  swinging  them 
out. 

Mr.  Nugent  comes  along,  saying:  "Why  all 
the  extra  attention?"  to  Denton. 

"Orders  from  the  first  officer — that's  all  I 
know  about  it,"  says  Denton.  "  'Be  sure  to  have 
one  that  will  run  smooth  and  proper,'  "  he  says. 

"A  good  idea,  but  why  not  all  of  them  ?"  says 
Mr.  Nugent. 

"Suppose  you  ask  him  that?"  says  Denton. 

Mr.  Nugent  kinda  grins  to  let  Denton  know 
he's  put  one  over  with  his  answer,  and  then  sorta 
loafs  over  to  where  I  am  and  says — he's  lighting  a 
cigarette  and  looking  out  to  sea  while  he's  saying 
it — "Stick  by  that  man  all  you  can,  Hiker." 

Denton  keeps  on  tallowing  the  boat  falls  and 
the  ship  keeps  zigzagging  away  at  her  best  speed, 
with  nobody  saying  much  about  U-boats  that 
afternoon.  But  by  supper-time  all  hands  begin 
to  loosen  up  again. 

"He'll  run  home,  the  captain  o'  that  one,  and 
tell  what  a  great  deed  he  done,  and  Kaiser  Bill 
he'll  give  'im  a  niron  cross  or  a  leather  medal  or 
something  an'  tell  'im  what  a  raving  wonder  he 

66 


Aboard  the  Horse-Boat 

is,  an'  that'll  fill  'im  up  so  he'll  rush  out  again 
to  show  what  he  can  do  again— 

—an'  run  'is  bloody  nose  into  our  nets !" 

"Aye,  nets  that  was  never  knitted  by  no  old 
wives  between  the  cradle  an'  the  fireplace  of  a 
winter's  night.  An'  our  bulldogs  will  let  'em 
hang  there  till  their  bleedin5  corpses  become  rotten 
an'  puffed  out  like  the  belly  of  a  windsail  wi'  the 
gas.  An'  then  what  ?  They'll  haul  the  'ellish 
invention  to  the  top  an'  let  the  people  ashore 
'ave  a  squint  at  'er — wi'  maybe  a  tanner  or  a  bob 
nadmission  for  a  'orspital  fund.  I'd  pay  a  bob, 
so  'elp  me,  to  see  the  one  did  that  dirty  deed 
'ooked  fast  to  a  London  dock." 

After  supper  I  go  up  on  deck  to  roll  a  cigarette. 
There's  a  notice  posted  saying  no  smoking  on 
deck  after  5  p.  M. — that's  so  no  U-boat  would 
see  any  kind  of  light.  It  was  a  good  notice  when 
they  first  put  it  up  in  winter  time,  but  a  kinda 
foolish  one  now  when  it's  coming  on  summer 
time  and  don't  get  dark  till  a  long  time,  maybe 
nine  o'clock  at  night.  "Though  at  that,"  says 
Bill,  "no  more  foolish  than  a  lot  of  other  ship 
laws  that  these  guys  ain't  goin'  to  have  upset  by 
the  risin'  or  settin'  of  any  sun  or  the  march  of 
any  centuries!"  Anyway  it's  one  of  the  ship's 
laws  and  the  men  have  to  pick  out  snooky  places 
around  deck  to  smoke  in,  and  so  now  I  tuck  in 


Hiker  Joy 

among  the  life-rafts  on  the  top  deck  to  roll  a 
ciggy,  and  I'm  peeking  out  between  a  coupla 
tiers  of  life-rafts  so  no  ship's  officer  will  fall  on 
me  before  I  know  it,  when  I  see  Denton's  head 
sticking  up  from  a  ladderway.  He  takes  a  long 
look  around  and  when  he  don't  see  anybody  he 
dives  into  the  wireless  shack.  The  wireless  oper- 
ator he  likes  his  bitters  pretty  well  too,  Bill'd 
told  me,  and  Denton  seeing  to  it  that  he  got  'em 
pretty  reg'lar. 

Denton  is  in  the  wireless  shack  maybe  an  hour 
when  he  comes  out  again.  He  steps  quick  away 
from  the  shack  and  then  slows  down  and  strolls 
over  to  the  side  of  the  ship  where  they  can't  see 
him  from  the  bridge  and  begins  to  look  around  on 
the  yocean.  I  look  where  I  see  he's  looking,  and 
when  I  do  I  bimeby  see  the  littlest  white  wave. 
I  look  to  Denton  and  he's  wigwagging  a  white 
handkerchief.  When  he  stops  and  I  look  for  the 
white  wave  again,  it's  gone. 

He  walks  to  where  there's  a  sorta  telegraph 
machine  on  the  deck.  It's  to  ring  orders  down  to 
the  engine-room  with  when  the  captain  is  astern 
on  deck  'stead  of  on  the  bridge.  Denton  looks 
it  over,  like  he's  thinking  of  sometime  buying  one 
like  it,  and  then  he  hustles  down  a  ladderway. 

I  go  after  him.  He  goes  to  his  room.  He's 
soon  out  and  hustling  with  a  pea-jacket  on  him 

68 


Aboard  the  Horse-Boat 

to  where  Worts  and  a  coupla  other  men  who'd 
been  saved  from  the  wreck  are  bunking.  He 
goes  into  their  room,  and  in  no  time  is  out  with 
Worts.  There's  only  the  shaded  blue  war-zone 
lights  in  the  passageway,  which  you  can't  see 
anything  by  except  you  stand  right  under  them. 
So  I  can  get  up  pretty  close  if  I  want  to,  and  I  do. 

Denton  whispers  something  to  Worts  and 
Worts  sort  o'  shivers,  saying:  "I'm  cold.  Wait 
till  I  put  something  on." 

"All  right,"  says  Denton,  "but  hurry." 

Worts  goes  back  into  his  room  and  comes  out 
with  a  big  loose  sweater  on,  and  Denton  hurries 
back  with  him  down  the  passageway  to  where 
there's  a  ladder  going  to  the  top  deck. 

At  the  foot  of  this  ladder  Worts  stops  and  says 
something,  and  Denton  says  something.  Worts 
shakes  his  head,  saying:  "You  will  be  caught.  I 
will  not  go,"  so  I  can  just  hear  him,  and  when  he 
does  Denton  grabs  him  by  the  throat  and  starts 
to  choke  him.  Worts  throws  up  his  hands 
meaning  he's  had  enough.  Denton,  who's  a 
quick-moving  husky  guy,  then  shoves  Worts  up 
the  ladder  ahead  of  him.  I  trail  along  behind. 

They  go  up  past  the  horse  deck  to  the  top  deck. 
When  I  get  there  they're  back  near  the  stern  of 
the  ship.  It's  getting  dark,  and  I  crawl  up  to 
behind  a  gypsy  head.  "Stand  there,"  I  hear 

69 


Hiker  Joy 

Denton  say,  "to  shade  this  light  from  the  bridge 
people,  and  I'll  show  you  how  it  can  be  done." 

Worts  stood  there,  and  the  next  thing  I  see  is 
the  flash  of  a  nelectric  hand  light.  "See!"  says 
Denton. 

From  where  I  am  I  can  see  too — the  big- 
lettered  words— AHEAD— ASTERN— STOP- 
words  like  that  on  the  telegraph  machine,  when 
Denton  flashes  the  light  on  them. 

While  they're  at  that  I  skip  over  and  climb 
into  a  lifeboat,  and  it  happens  to  be  the  one  Den- 
ton tallowed  the  falls  of  that  afternoon,  and  I 
stick  my  head  just  over  the  gunnel  so's  to  hear, 
but  I  pull  it  back  down  when  I  see  them  coming 
too  near  me. 

They  stop  near  the  boat,  and  I  begin  to  get  a 
word  or  two.  "This  ship  will  never  reach  port," 
says  Denton,  "so  you  had  better  come  with  me 
anyway." 

"You  don't  trust  me?"  says  Worts. 

"Trust  you?  No!"  says  Denton.  "And  no 
more  talk !  Come,  or  you  die.  Here — now ! 
What  do  you  say? — and  say  it  quick!" 

I'm  wondering  while  he's  talking  can  I  slip  be- 
low and  get  Mr.  Nugent,  because  Denton's  voice 
now  is  the  voice  of  the  leader  of  the  gang  of 
bomb  men  back  in  Brooklyn;  but  before  I  can 
dope  out  how  to  get  away  they're  clearing  the 

70 


Aboard  the  Horse-Boat 

falls  of  the  boat  I'm  in  and  the  next  thing 
down  goes  the  life-boat  in  jerks.  First  by  the  bow 
and  then  by  the  stern  it  goes;  and  sometimes 
both  ends  together — little  jumps  of  a  coupla 
feet,  shaking  me  up  fine. 

She  is  almost  to  the  water  before  she  stops. 
Then  one  of  'em  comes  sliding  down  by  the  stern 
falls,  and  the  oars  being  stretched  half-way 
across  the  seats  in  a  nice  flat  row  I'm  under  the 
oars.  I  peek  out  and  see  it's  Worts  and  talking 
like  he's  sore  to  himself. 

This  life-boat  is  the  nearest  one  to  the  propeller 
on  the  port  side,  and  all  at  once  I  notice  the  pro- 
peller ain't  churning  up  the  water  any  more, 
meaning  the  ship's  stopped  steaming.  Then 
Denton  comes  sliding  down.  I  can  feel  him  land- 
ing on  his  toes  in  the  stern,  but  no  word  out  of 
him  except — "Lower  your  end  and  cast  off,"  to 
Worts.  The  ship  by  then  has  slowed  up  most  to 
nothing.  There's  a  little  jar  and  splash  when 
the  boat  drops  the  last  coupla  feet  into  the  water, 
and  there's  a  clinking  noise  when  they  turn  the 
tackle  blocks  loose  and  they  hit  the  side  of  the 
ship.  We  drift  away,  and  bimeby  Denton  says: 
"She's  steaming  again — hear  her?" 

"I  hear,"  says  Worts. 

"And  more  fright  than  pleasure  in  her  engine- 
room  when  they  got  that  order  to  stop.  And  no 

71 


Hiker  Joy 

joy  on  her  bridge,  I'll  warrant,  when  she  stopped,'* 
says  Den  ton. 

Worts  don't  say  anything. 

Bimeby  Demon  speaks  again.  "She'll  be  miles 
away  now,  the  old  horse-boat.  I'll  have  a  flash 
or  two  for  the  212.  A  neat  shot  she  made  to-day 
of  that  English  cruiser,  wasn't  it  ?" 

Worts  don't  say  anything. 

Denton  flashes  the  hand  light  out  over  the 
water.  Pretty  soon — "That  will  do,  I  think. 
There  may  be  patrols — not  ours — hereabouts," 
he  says,  and  begins  to  talk  what  I  thought 
was  German;  but  not  for  long,  because  Worts 
bites  out:  "I've  had  enough  of  your  Polish  jar- 
gon. If  you  cannot  talk  real  German  talk  Eng- 
lish. I'll  understand  you  better." 

"Too  bad,"  said  Denton,  "because  you  will 
hear  no  end  of  that  jargon  on  the  212." 

Everything  went  quiet  then,  and  stayed  quiet 
for  maybe  a  coupla  hours.  Denton  begins  to 
breathe  like  a  man  asleep,  but  I  wouldn't  bet  he 
was;  but  it  musta  sounded  like  he's  asleep  to 
Worts  because:  "Are  you  asleep,  captain?"  I 
hear  him  say  bimeby,  not  too  loud. 

There's  no  answer,  and  again:  "Are  you  asleep, 
captain?"  says  Worts. 

"What  is  it?"  says  Denton's  voice  this  time. 

Worts  don't  answer  for  most  a  minute  and 
72 


Aboard  the  Horse-Boat 

when  he  does:  "I  thought  I  saw  a  signal  light 
astern,"  is  what  he  says,  and  comes  stepping 
over  the  seats  towards  Denton's  end  of  the  boat. 
I  could  easy  reach  out  and  touch  his  feet  when 
he  passed  by  where  I'm  lying  under  the  oars, 
but  I  don't.  But  I  stick  my  head  out  behind 
him.' 

"I  see  no  light  astern,"  says  Denton's  voice. 

"Not  dead  astern — more  to  your  right,"  says 
Worts. 

Denton  musta  turned  his  head  to  look,  because 
—Ring !  Bing !  comes  two  pistol  shots  from 
Worts.  I  roll  back  under  the  oars. 

"So  !"  I  hear  Worts  say,  "I  did  for  you,  did  I  ?" 

There's  no  answer,  but  all  at  once  I  feel  the 
boat  rock  and  hear  the  two  of  'em  mixing  it  up; 
and  then  there's  something  not  weighing  much, 
maybe  a  pistol,  falling  into  the  bottom  of  the 
boat,  and:  "Don't— don't !"  And  next— "My 
wrist — it  is  broken!"  I  hear  Worts  say.  But  no 
word  from  Denton,  only  Bing ! — a  shot,  and  down 
onto  the  oars  over  my  head  come  somebody's 
body.  I  coulda  reached  up  and  touched  him 
through  a  narrer  little  space  between  the  oars, 
but  I  don't  because  I  feel  something  warm  and 
wet  dropping  on  my  face,  and  when  I  do  I  wiggle 
away.  Bimeby  I  find  another  narrer  little  space 
between  the  oars  so  I  can  see  the  stars,  and  lie 

73 


Hiker  Joy 

there  trying  to  dope  out  what  I  oughta  do.  But 
I  couldn't  see  where  I  could  do  anything,  and  I 
musta  gone  to  sleep  that  way,  because  the  next 
thing  I'm  awake  and  trying  to  think  where  I  am. 
I'm  lying  in  the  bottom  of  a  boat  and  spot  a  fine 
blue  sky  up  between  some  oars  over  my  head. 
And  there's  a  fine  smell  of  air  slipping  in  on  me. 
And  a  great  sunlight.  I  roll  over  and  then  I 
roll  right  back,  knowing  where  I  am  right  away, 
because  the  dead  body  of  Worts  is  almost  right 
aside  of  me  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

But  he's  dead  and  can't  hurt  me,  so  bimeby  I 
take  a  peek  out  to  see  where  Denton  is.  He's 
there  with  his  head  on  his  arms  and  his  arms  on 
the  stern  seat.  There's  a  saggy  look  to  him,  like 
he's  all  in.  He's  maybe  asleep,  I  thinks.  And 
maybe  he  yain't,  the  foxy  guy,  I  think  again; 
but  whatever  it  is,  no  use  me  hiding  much  longer, 
so  I  come  out  from  under  the  oars  and  cough. 

He  don't  say  anything  and  he  don't  make  a 
move,  so  I  wait  awhile,  and  then  I  cough  and  wait 
some  more.  NO  move. 

I  cough  and  wait  some  more.  But  not  even  a 
breath  out  of  him.  Then  I  say:  "Good  mornin'," 
as  polite  as  if  he's  a  Yeast  Side  cop. 

That  don't  start  him,  so  I  step  nearer  and  see 
a  pistol  under  the  seat,  and  another  pistol  along- 
side him.  I  have  a  nidea  of  grabbing  one  of 

74 


Aboard  the  Horse-Boat 

'em,  but  I  think  it  over  and  say  to  myself:  "Lay 
off  the  pistol  stuff,  Hiker — he'd  beat  yuh  to  it, 
that  guy!" 

I  go  over  and  tap  him  on  the  shoulder.  Still 
he  don't  wake.  And  then  it  begins  to  come  to 
me,  and  I  shake  him  hard. 

He  was  dead  all  right. 

"You  were  a  tough  game  guy,"  I  said,  "but 
you're  all  through  now,"  and  roll  a  cigarette  and 
I  sit  there  smoking  and  wondering  where  the 
belt  is.  I  finish  my  cigarette  and  then  fish  Worts's 
pockets,  but  there's  nothing  in  them.  I  try  Den- 
ton  all  over,  and  he's  got  it — wrapped  around  his 
waist.  I  take  it  off  him  and  cut  about  a  foot  off 
the  end  and  make  some  new  holes  with  my  knife 
so's  I  can  wrap  it  around  my  own  waist  without 
having  to  take  three  or  four  reefs  in  it.  It  was 
a  flat,  soft,  oily  kind  of  leather  stitched  in  two 
parts.  Between  the  two  parts  I  could  feel  some- 
thing loose  and  silk-like,  messages  I  s'pose  of  what- 
ever they  wanted  to  get  to  somebody  some- 
wheres.  I  buckled  it  on  under  my  shirt. 

Getting  at  the  belt  made  me  move  Denton's 
head,  and  there's  a  little  note-book  and  a  sheet 
of  paper  and  a  pencil  on  the  seat  under  his  head. 
There's  half  a  dozen  pencil  lines — not  English- 
scrawled  loose  like  he'd  done  it  in  the  dark; 
and  it  ends  in  the  middle  of  a  word,  like  as  if  he 

75 


Hiker  Joy 

died  before  he  could  finish.  It's  written  on  a 
page  torn  out  of  the  note-book,  which  has  other 
writing  in  it;  but  all  single  words  by  themselves 
when  I  come  to  look — like  code  words. 

I'm  wondering  what  to  do  then,  and  while 
I'm  wondering  and  looking  out  from  the  boat  to 
help  me  wonder,  a  piece  of  iron  pipe  comes  stick- 
ing up  through  the  sea.  It  was  maybe  a  coupla 
hundred  feet  away,  and  it  moves  like  in  a  circle 
around  the  life-boat.  The  yocean  is  smooth,  and 
not  another  thing  on  it  but  that  piece  of  pipe 
moving  through  the  water.  I  keep  chasing  it 
with  my  eyes,  and  around  the  boat  it  goes.  And 
again  around,  but  closer  in  this  time;  and  I 
know  what  that  pipe  is  from  seeing  periscopes  in 
the  movies,  and  I  don't  need  any  movies  to  tell 
me  that  the  guy  looking  up  through  that  pipe  is 
keeping  a  bright  eye  on  me.  So  I  let  the  note  and 
the  note-book  stay  right  there  where  they  are. 

The  periscope  comes  higher  out  of  water,  and 
after  the  periscope  comes  a  conning  tower;  and 
next  a  sorta  deck  platform  with  two  pretty  good- 
sized  guns  comes  humping  up  out  of  the  water. 
There  is  a  letter  and  a  number  on  her  conning 
tower!  U-2I2  it  is. 

A  hatch  opens  in  the  platform,  and  one  at  a 
time  come  a  bunch  of  men  up  through  it.  One  in 
a  yuniform  calls  out  in  pretty  good  American: 


Aboard  the  Horse-Boat 

"What  ship's  boat  is  that?"  I  tell  him — the 
English  ship  Bucephalus. 

"Are  you  alone  in  it?"  he  says  then,  and 
"All  alone,"  I  holler  back,  "'cepting  two  dead 
men,"  which  starts  them  all  into  life.  The  212 
comes  nearer  and  the  man  in  the  yuniform  and 
another  man  step  over  the  gunnel  of  the  life-boat. 

They  spot  Worts  first,  but  don't  say  anything. 
Then  the  one  in  yuniform  looks  at  Denton,  and 
raises  his  chin  and  says  something  that  sounded 
like  "Kapitan,  Kapitan !  Kapitan  Chimilen- 
ski!"  three  or  four  times,  like  he  felt  bad.  He 
picks  the  two  pistols  up,  and  then  the  note-book. 
He  looks  all  through  the  note-book,  shakes  his 
head  like  he  means  there's  nothing  much  in  it, 
and  passes  it  on  to  the  next  guy  to  look  at.  Then 
he  picks  up  and  reads  the  note;  and  when  he 
does  he  looks  at  Worts  and  says  a  few  words  like 
he's  sore  in  German  to  the  other  guy,  and  the  other 
guy  says  something  and  looks  down  at  Worts, 
and  with  the  toe  of  his  boot  turns  Worts  over  on 
his  face. 

They  talk  awhile,  and  it  looks  to  me  like  I'll 
be  in  a  minute  taking  some  kind  of  a  third  degree, 
when  a  man  on  the  U-boat  sings  out  something 
and  points.  Everybody  looks.  It  is  smoke  a 
long  ways  off.  The  guy  in  uniform  looks  at  the 
smoke,  then  calls  out  something,  and  four  of 

77 


Hiker  Joy 

them  rush  over,  pick  up  Denton,  and  carry  him 
down  into  the  212.  They  come  back  and  one 
of  them  points  to  Worts,  but  the  captain  shakes 
his  head.  He  turns  to  me  and  says,  "Come/' 

I  look  at  the  U-boat  and  then  at  the  smoke. 
It's    a   fine,   smooth,    sunny   morning    and   that 
smoke  looks  good.     "Can't  I  stay  here  ?"  I  say— 
"I'm  all  right  here." 

"Come!"  he  says;  and  I  step  after  him  and 
down  into  the  U-boat,  and  as  I  do  I  feel  of  the 
belt  and  say  to  myself:  "We  got  you  back,  but 
I  wonder  did  he  mention  you  in  that  note,  because 
if  he  did  I'm  beginning  to  see  right  here  where  the 
Allies  will  be  having  to  win  this  war  without  any 
more  help  from  me." 


The  Undersea  Men 

THEY  showed  me  the  way  down  a  ladder  into 
the  middle  of  the  U-boat,  where  all  I  can 
see  for  a  while  is  a  nawful  lot  o'  tubes  'n'  valves 
'n5  gauges  'n'  machinery.  There's  some  men  ly- 
ing down  on  pieces  of  canvas  laced  to  pieces  of 
pipe — some  reading  and  some  doing  nothing, 
meaning  they're  off  watch. 

The  captain  and  his  next  man  came  down  from 
the  deck,  closing  the  hatch  after  them.  The 
captain  pressed  a  button  or  something,  and  when 
he  did  'most  everybody  standing  around  takes  a 
running  long  jump  onto  whatever  his  job  was. 
Soon  it's  a  nawful  racket  of  the  engines,  and 
there's  a  gauge  marking  off  things  they  call  metres 
which  'most  everybody  was  keeping  one  eye  on. 

Nobody  all  this  time  took  any  notice  of  me  ex- 
cept a  guy  who's  standing  by  a  lot  of  wheels  which 
they  call  valves  on  steamers.  This  guy  flaps  out 
one  elbow  at  me,  meaning  for  me  to  hop  outa  his 
way.  I  hopped.  Him  and  the  rest  of  them,  they 
all  look  like  they  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  some- 
thing sudden  happens.  They  get  me  to  feeling  the 
same  way.  But  nothing  happens,  and  I'm  feel- 
ing easier  and  wondering  when  is  she  going  under 

79 


Hiker  Joy 

water,  because  when  she  does  I  want  to  be  all 
set  to  be  scared.  The  next  thing  I  notice  them 
lifting  the  hatches  and  then  down  comes  the  sun- 
light and  fresh  air  again. 

The  Captain  comes  over  to  me  with  Demon's 
note  in  his  hand,  and  asts  me  to  tell  him  how  I 
come  to  be  in  that  life-boat.  So  without  making 
myself  dizzy  trying  to  remember  too  much  I  tell 
him  my  name,  and  how  one  day  I  shipped  with 
Bill  Green  on  a  lumber  schooner  out  of  New 
York,  and  how  she's  blown  off-shore  and  hove- 
down  and  how  we're  picked  up  by  the  hoss-boat 
—those  of  us  that  wasn't  dead — and  how  on  the 
hoss-boat  I  used  to  sleep  in  one  of  the  life-boats, 
so's  to  make  my  getaway  if  we're  torpedoed  in  the 
night,  and  how  I'm  tucked  there  under  the  oars 
the  night  before,  when  I'm  waked  up  by  the  boat 
being  lowered,  and  the  next  thing  there's  two  men 
in  it  named  Worts  and  Denton  arguing  about 
something,  and  Worts  calls  Denton  a  Polish  out- 
lander  and  a  few  more  things,  and  Denton  says  a 
few  words  about  Prussian  dogs,  and  the  next 
thing  it's  Bing !  Bing ! — two  shots  from  Worts, 
and  a  Bing!  from  Denton,  and  next  morning, 
when  I  come  out  from  under  the  oars  they're 
both  dead. 

All  the  time  I'm  talking  I  can  feel  somebody 
standing  behind  me,  and  when  I'm  all  done  the 

80 


The  Undersea  Men 

captain  says:  "He  speaks  the  truth,  you  think  ?" 
and  this  guy  behind  me  says:  "I  think  so,  Herr 
Kapitan.  I  also  know  this  Green  he  mentions — 
a  water-front  loafer,  Herr  Kapitan." 

"Bill  Green's  no  loafer!"  I  says,  and  turns 
around,  and  when  I  do  there's  Emile,  a  night 
taxi  man  who  used  to  come  into  the  Riverview 
caffey  for  breakfast  when  Fm  there  mornings 
sweeping  out  the  place  for  my  eats. 

"I  spotted  you  soon's  you  came  aboard,"  says 
Emile. 

Mr.  Herr  Kapitan  says  something  in  German, 
and  Emile  begins  to  pump  me  about  Denton, 
saying  Denton  died  before  he  could  finish  a  note 
he  was  writing  and  did  I  know  what  he  was  try- 
ing to  write  about,  and  I  says  no. 

"Couldn't  imagine,  could  yuh?"  says  Emile; 
and  I  says  no  I  couldn't  imagine. 

Emile  says  something  then  to  the  Herr  Kapitan, 
who  hikes  up  his  shoulders  like  he's  saying:  "O 
well,  what  more  can  we  do  ? "  And  moves  away. 

"Who  was  Denton  ?"  I  ast  Emile  then. 

"Chimilinski  ?"  says  Emile.     "He  was  a  secret 


service  man." 


"Meanin'  a  spy?" 

"Meaning  secret  service,"  says  Emile.  "When 
they're  enemies  you  call  'em  spies.  He  was  a 
secret  service  who'd  been  in  England,  France, 

81 


Hiker  Joy 

and  America.  Our  captain  here  says  Chimilin- 
ski  knew  his  business,  though  he  reminded  him 
of  some  of  those  Irishmen  our  soldiers  tell  about 
on  the  western  front.  'Gott  strafe  die  Englische,' 
our  fuhlas  would  call  out,  and  'We're  with  you 
there !  To  hell  with  England  !'  the  Irish  guys  'd 
yell  back,  but  pickin'  our  fuhlas  up  on  the  end  o' 
their  baynits  while  they're  sayin'  it.  Chimilin- 
ski  was  the  same  way,  cursin'  the  Prussians  an' 
helpin'  them  ev'ry  minute  to  win.  A  lot  more 
guys  the  same  way." 

I  ast  Emile  then  when  we're  going  to  what  they 
call  submerge. 

"Submerge?  We  been  submerged.  We  been 
down  to  twenty  metres  already  since  you  came 
aboard." 

"Jeezooks!"  I  says.  "And  is  that  all  there  is 
to  goin'  under  the  sea  ?" 

"How'd  you  think  it'd  be  ? — flying  p.round 
and  seein'  scenery  like  in  a  nairoplane  ?  But 
wait  till  they  plunk  a  few  3OO-pound  T.N.T. 
depth  charges  around  the  little  old  212." 

"A  few  ?  About  one  of  those  babies  would  be 
enough  for  me.  Anything  doin'  in  the  eats  ? " 

"Sure,"  says  Emile,  and  he  speaks  to  the  Herr 
Kapitan,  and  he  slips  the  right  guy  the  word, 
and  he  lowers  a  little  table  from  the  ceiling  and 
brings  me  some  beef  out  of  a  can,  and  a  cup  of 

82 


The  Undersea  Men 

hot  coffee  from  a  nelectric  stove,  and  some  canned 
peaches,  and  soon  I'm  feeling  better,  and  when 
Emile  has  to  go  on  watch  I  sorta  loaf  around,  no- 
body minding  me  much;  and  there's  a  ladder 
going  up  to  a  hatch,  and  when  nobody  don't  say 
anything  I  slip  up  the  ladder  to  the  deck,  where  I 
see  about  all  the  sun  there  ever  was  shining  down 
from  about  as  blue  a  sky  as  ever  I  see,  onto  a 
nocean  dimpling  blue  Jn'  green  or  maybe  some- 
times purple,  with  curly  little  waves  running  up 
to  the  topsides  of  the  U-boat  to  the  long  nar- 
rer  platform  which  Emile  says  is  her  deck. 
There's  a  chain  high  as  my  chest  running  around 
the  platform,  and  leaning  over  the  rail  is  some  of 
the  crew,  smoking  'n'  talking  'n'  looking  out  over 
the  ocean  like  they  think  it's  a  pretty  swell  morn- 
ing, too.  Young  fuhlas  most  of  'em,  like  Emile, 
and  needing  shaves  most  of  'em,  too.  And  a 
wash.  But  I  guess  I  was  needing  a  wash  myself. 
And  wearing  any  old  kind  o'  clothes  they  are, 
all  except  the  Herr  Kapitan,  who's  up  atop  of  the 
conning  tower  in  a  regular  yuniform. 

Bimeby  they  spot  something  through  their 
glasses  from  the  conning  tower,  and  soon  the  wake 
of  the  212  is  curving  into  a  circle,  meaning  she's 
changing  her  course.  Next,  there's  the  smoke  of 
a  steamer,  and  looking  at  her  I  can  see  what 
a  cinch  a  U-boat  has  in  some  ways.  We  can  see 

83 


Hiker  Joy 

her  plain,  but  they  can't  see  us  for  a  long  time 
yet — we  being  so  low  on  the  water. 

They  watch  her  for  maybe  half  an  hour,  and 
then  the  captain  says  something  and  everybody 
beats  it  below,  me  with  them,  and  when  I  do  I 
find  Emile  standing  by  some  valves.  He's  a 
ballast-tank  man,  meaning  he  has  to  blow  water 
in  and  out  of  tanks  when  the  212  wants  to  go 
under  or  come  to  the  top.  She's  going  under 
now,  though  ony  for  what  Emile  says  is  the  depth 
gauge  with  the  metres  marked  on  it  and  a  long 
hand  on  it  slipping  by  the  2,  4,  6,  8,  and  more 
figures — ony  for  that  she  coulda  been  tied  up  to 
a  dock  ashore  for  all  the  action  I  got  out  of  her 
going  under.  There's  a  nawful  racket  of  machin- 
ery again  and  more  noise  than  firemen  at  a  fire, 
with  people  trying  to  talk  to  each  other,  and  elec- 
tric lights  all  over  the  place,  but  I  coulda  got  that 
with  a  night  gang  on  a  subway  section. 

The  next  thing  there's  a  sound,  a  woof!  from 
somewheres,  like  a  big  dog  with  a  soft  cold  bark- 
ing; and  while  I'm  still  wondering  what  the  sound 
is,  the  212  sorta  heels  over,  and  the  captain  looks 
up  from  the  periscope  and  nods  like  he's  pleased  to 
a  coupla  guys  near  him. 

"He  got  her!"  says  Emile,  and  eases  away 
from  his  valves.  Everybody  sorta  eases  away 
from  whatever  they  been  doing. 


The  Undersea  Men 

"What  happened?"  I  says. 

"We  got  a  torpedo  away  and  into  a  ship," 
says  Emile. 

Jeezooks !  That  woof!  I  heard  was  the  tor- 
pedo being  fired ! 

Pretty  soon  the  depth  gauge  goes  back  to  zero, 
and  the  captain  leaves  the  periscope  and  goes 
up  into  the  conning  tower,  and  when  he  does  half 
a  dozen  fuhlas  run  over  and  have  a  peek  through 
the  periscope. 

"Want  a  look?"  says  Emile,  and  o'  course  I 
don't  want  to  miss  anything,  and  I  see  a  ship  low 
in  the  water.  I  have  another  look  and  see 
four  or  five  life-boats  with  men  in  them. 

"Coin'  to  give  'em  a  tow,  I  s'pose?"  I  says  to 
Emile. 

"Not  while  their  ship  is  atop  o'  water." 

"Why  not?" 

"She  may  be  a  mystery  ship." 

"What's  that?"  I  says. 

"S'pose  you're  in  a  sub  an'  you  torpedo  a 
ship  an'  she  surrenders  and  they  get  into  boats 
and  you  run  the  sub  close  up  to  her,  thinkin' 
everybody's  left  the  ship,  and  soon's  you  do 
the  ship's  topsides  drop  down  and  from  a  coupla 
guns  hid  behind  the  topsides  comes  a  coupla 
broadsides,  and  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea  goes  your 
sub  and  all  hands  !  That's  a  mystery  ship." 

85 


Hiker  Joy 

"Ain't  that  fair  in  war?" 

"Sure.  But  I  thought  you  asked  why  don't 
we  give  'em  a  tow?" 

Bimeby  the  ship  sinks  and  I  don't  see  any  sign? 
of  any  tows  going  around,  and  so  I  put  it  to 
Emile  again. 

"It's  only  twenty  or  thirty  miles  to  shore  and 
the  wind  fair — they  don't  need  any  tow,"  says 
Emile. 

"You  guys  're  right  there,  Emile — hah  ? — with 
the  yalibis?"  I  says. 

"Not  a  quarter  as  many,"  says  Emile,  "as  the 
Yinglish  after  the  Jutland  fight." 

"Didn't  they  win  it?"  I  says. 

"O'  course  they  won  it.  That's  why  they've 
been  explaining  it  ever  since,  an'  why  they  put 
Jellicoe  ashore  after  the  fight." 

"Meaning  what  ?"  I  says. 

"Meaning  no  nation  puts  a  winnin'  admiral 
ashore." 

Then  I  come  back  at  him  with:  "But  that  don't 
explain  how  you  who's  an  American  come  to  be 
in  a  U-boat." 

"Don't  it  ?  Well,  if  it's  all  right  for  fuhlas  to 
come  over  and  have  a  wallop  at  Germany,  why 
ain't  it  all  right  for  other  fuhlas  to  come  over  here 
and  have  a  wallop  at  England — the  United 
States  not  bein'  to  war  at  the  time  ?  Answer  me 

86 


The  Undersea  Men 

that,  will  yuh  ?  And  we  had  'em  licked  cold  till 
the  United  States  butted  in." 

"Our  papers  never  said  so." 

"The  papers  never  said  a  lot  o'  things." 

He's  too  tough  a  guy  for  me  to  argue  with  and 
I  lay  off  him,  and  ast  him  what  kind  of  a  fuhla 
the  Herr  Kapitan  is. 

"I  see  him  get  five  ships  in  one  day  and  eighteen 
in  one  week.  He's  a  Big  Leaguer,"  says  Emile. 

"Don't  they  all  have  to  be  Big  Leaguers  in 
U-boats?"  I  says. 

"They  oughta  be,  but  they  all  ain't.  We  got 
our  Honus  Wagners  'n'  Lajoies  'n'  Cobbs,  but 
there's  Bush  Leaguers  too.  We  maybe  look  like 
a  bunch  o'  bums  at  sea,  but  lemme  tell  yuh, 
Hiker,  no  bull-fighters  or  opera  singers  'r  movie 
stars  got  anything  on  U-boat  crews  for  being 
heroes  when  we  walk  down  the  Strasse,  of  a 
Sunday  afternoon.  But  there's  always  a  lot  o' 
guys  who  want  to  be  heroes  but  who  ain't  there 
on  the  show-down;  and  about  all  that  kind  do  is 
to  slip  out  an'  go  through  the  motions,  and  when 
their  three  weeks  is  up  slip  back  home  and  maybe 
report  ships  sunk  they  never  sunk.  There's 
phonies  in  the  aviation  game  doin'  the  same 
thing — Germans  and  Allies  both,  so  they  tell  me. 
But  this  guy — he's  a  400  hitter  in  a  Big  League 
all  right.  The  only  trouble  with  him,  he  likes 


Hiker  Joy 

to  sort  a  rub  it  in  just  to  show  'em  how  easy  it  is 


sometimes." 


"Let  him  try  to  show  our  fuhlas  how  easy  it 
is  an*  they'll  get  him,"  I  says. 

"Oh,  somebody  '11  get  us  all  if  we  stick  to  it 
long  enough,"  says  Emile. 

It's  up  on  deck  we're  talking,  and  just  then  they 
sight  a  steamer.  The  212  goes  after  her,  and 
hauls  up  on  her,  and  tries  to  get  to  one  side  of 
her,  but  the  steamer  keeps  putting  her  stern 
toward  us. 

The  2i2's  gun  crews  come  up  and  load  the 
guns,  and  bimeby  they  cut  loose  with  about  a 
6-inch  shell.  They  send  another,  and  another, 
and  they  bust  in  brown  bunches  o'  smoke  aboard 
the  steamer  or  close  by.  The  212  fires  maybe 
twenty  shots  when  the  steamer's  steering  gear  or 
something  else  goes  out  o'  commission  and  she 
lays  still;  and  when  she  does  the  212  walks 
right  up  to  abeam  of  her  and  bing !  bing !  they 
plunk  her  like  it's  target  practice  and  all  day 
to  do  it  in,  from  the  2i2's  deck  guns. 

The  steamer  is  firing  at  the  212  all  this  time, 
but  Emile  said  it  was  a  nold-time  4-inch  gun  she's 
got  and  her  shots  splash  short  of  us,  the  nearest 
of  'em  a  quarter-mile  away  like  little  white  bushes 
on  the  slaty  sea. 

"Pretty  soft  for  you  guys,"  I  says  to  Emile, 
88 


The  Undersea  Men 

"with  them  not  able  to  make  their  shells  to  reach 
yuh  even." 

"Oh,  not  so  soft !  We  might  hit  them  a  hun- 
dred times  and  they  still  be  afloat,  but  one  shell 
from  them  into  us — just  one  and  it  wouldn't  have 
to  be  any  six-inch  shell  either,  and  it'd  be  call  the 
roll,  salute  and  bugles,  and  then — Ho  for  the 
bottom  for  the  212.  O  yeah,  very  soft!"  says 
Emile. 

"They're  lowering  their  boats — they've  given 
up,"  says  Emile  next.  "She's  about  a  6,oooton 
cotton  steamer.  Making  a  fair  day's  work,  even 
if  we  don't  get  any  more." 

But  the  212  don't  get  her. 

The  next  thing  we  see  them  stop  lowering  boats 
on  the  steamer.  Emile  puts  his  ear  up  to  get  the 
gossip:  It's  an  American  destroyer  on  the  way. 

It  turned  into  a  gray  day,  and  the  destroyer 
was  maybe  five  miles  away  when  we  see  her.  It 
was  a  smooth  sea  but  a  swell  on,  and  of  course 
she  was  coming  hooked  up.  It  was  nothing  but 
a  high  white  wave  to  her  bow  when  she  was  near 
enough  for  a  good  look.  She  took  a  swell  one 
time  over  her  forec's'le  head;  which  didn't  stop 
her  from  sending  out  a  shell  our  way  as  soon  as 
she  lifted  out  of  the  swell. 

I  could  see  the  red-white  bust  of  it,  and  next 
the  shell  comes  whistling  and  goes  skipping  along 


Hiker  Joy 

the  water — maybe  a  coupla  hundred  yards  short 
of  us. 

"Thataboy!"Isay. 

"Rot  'em — those  American  destroyers/'  says 
Emile.  "We  had  it  soft  till  they  came.  No 
steamin'  in  circles  and  shootin'  at  periscopes  a 
mile  away  for  them.  No.  Hooked  up  and  at 
us  they  come,  and  droppin'  the  little  old  300- 
pounders  on  us  if  we  stick  around." 

Jeezooks !  I  think,  and  don't  say  any  more 
thataboys ! 

The  second  shell  from  the  destroyer  is  a  coupla 
hundred  yards  over  the  212.  The  third  lands  so 
handy  that  everybody  was  ordered  below,  and 
under  water  goes  the  212.  Shelling  somebody 
and  being  shelled  by  somebody  else — it  ain't  the 
same. 

To  twenty  metres  the  212  goes  under,  steering 
every  which-way  fast  as  she  could  go,  and  she 
keeps  on  steering  every  which-way  for  maybe  a 
hour,  and  then  they  go  up  for  a  peek.  The  gossip 
goes  around  pretty  quick.  The  cotton  ship  is 
under  way  again  and  the  destroyer  steaming  cir- 
cles around  her.  The  Herr  Kapitan  keeps  watch- 
ing for  maybe  three  hours  and  then  the  gossip 
goes  around  that  the  cotton  ship's  been  tucked 
away  with  a  big  convoy,  and  we  ain't  going  to 
bother  her  anymore — the  captain's  got  his  eye 

90 


The  Undersea  Men 

on  a  big  fuhla,  a  i6,ooo-ton  light  English  cruiser 
that's  sticking  out  ahead  of  the  convoy. 

"The  captain  is  sore  at  the  other  one  gettin* 
away — watch  him  work  now,"  says  Emile. 

The  Herr  Kapitan  is  standing  at  the  periscope 
like  he's  afraid  he'll  miss  seeing  something. 
Pretty  soon  he  presses  a  button  and  something 
like  a  fire  alarm  rings  out  all  over  the  212,  and 
everybody  that  ain't  already  standing  by  some- 
thing takes  a  running  jump  to  get  to  something. 
They're  all  standing  stiff  to  their  stations  when  the 
Herr  Kapitan  calls  out — Emile  tells  me  the  Yin- 
glish  of  it  later:  "South — five  miles!"  meaning 
that's  where  the  big  ship  is,  and  something  else 
meaning  the  way  the  big  ship  is  heading;  and  when 
he  does  a  guy  makes  a  point  and  draws  a  line 
on  a  chart  he  has  on  a  little  table  near  the  cap- 
tain. There's  more  things  called  out  and  more 
points  and  lines  made,  and  another  guy  is  stand- 
ing by  with  a  watch  in  his  hand,  and  while  they're 
doing  that  the  212  goes  down  to  twenty  metres. 
The  captain  stands  away  from  the  periscope  and 
takes  it  easy  till  the  guy  with  the  watch  says  they 
got  ony  three  minutes  more  to  run.  The  same 
guy  counts  off  half-minutes  then  till  they  got  ony 
a  minute  to  run,  when  he  begins  to  count  off  by 
five  seconds.  Soon  it's  in  single  seconds  he's 
counting,  and  then  what  they  call  the  diving 

91 


Hiker  Joy 

rudder  man — a  nimportant  guy  in  a  U-boat- 
he  begins  to  porpoise  the  212,  meaning  he's 
swinging  her  up  and  down  under  water,  getting  her 
nearer  'n'  nearer  the  top,  till  the  guy  with  the 
watch  calls  out  the  very  last  second,  and  when 
he  does  the  diving  rudder  man  rolls  her  periscope 
outa  water. 

It's  maybe  ony  for  five  seconds  the  periscope 
is  out  o'  water,  but  it's  long  enough  for  the  cap- 
tain to  have  a  peek  and  call  out  some  more  things 
about  where  the  big  ship  is,  and  when  he  does 
the  guys  with  the  chart  and  the  watch  get  busy 
again;  and  while  they're  at  that  there's  a  troubled- 
looking  fuhla  called  Fred  bossing  the  job  of  hav- 
ing the  torpedoes  all  ready. 

They  call  out  the  seconds  and  she  begins  to 
porpoise,  and  at  zero  out  of  water  goes  her  peri- 
scope again  and  the  Herr  Kapitan  has  another 
look,  and  it's  a  sure  bet  then  he's  all  set  to  blow 
up  the  works.  He  whistles  to  the  guy  Fred  to 
be  ready  and  Fred  fixes  his  eyes  on  a  gadget 
that  shows  red  and  green  lights  when  it  flashes. 
And  the  diving  rudder  man  stands  about  a  ninch 
closer  to  his  little  wheel,  meaning  he's  all  set  too. 
And  Emile  and  another  tank  man  and  a  fuhla 
standing  by  what  they  call  the  yautomatic  safety 
devices,  they're  all  set.  Everybody  is  on  their 
toes  waiting  for  the  word.  All  at  once  I  hear  the 

92 


The  Undersea  Men 

guy  with  the  stop  watch  calling  into  the  diving 
rudder  man's  ear,  and  then  he  yells  at  him,  and 
when  he  yells,  outa  the  water  the  diving  rudder 
man  sends  her,  and  when  she  does  the  Herr 
Kapitan,  who's  on  his  toes  at  the  periscope, 
presses  a  button  or  something,  and — 

Woof!  comes  from  where  Fred  is,  meaning  the 
torpedo  is  on  her  way,  and  with  the  woof !  the  div- 
ing rudder  man  starts  her  down.  There's  a  little 
shock  like  and  the  212  keels  over,  meaning  the 
torpedo's  gone  home. 

The  captain  nods  his  head  like  he's  satisfied, 
and  then  deep  down  the  diving  rudder  man  shoots 
her,  and  45  metres  the  depth  gauge  says  this  time 
before  he  levels  her  up.  And  hooked  up  she  goes 
then,  her  deck  rolling  up  on  one  side  and  then  the 
other  under  us,  meaning  she's  shifting  courses 
pretty  fast. 

It's  like  a  guy  turning  corners  ahead  of  a  cop, 
and  they  all  got  their  ears  kinda  cocked  up  like 
they're  expecting  to  hear  from  the  cop,  and  they 
hear.  There's  a  boom ! — dull,  like  it's  from  the 
other  side  of  a  wall,  and  the  212  shakes  and  keels 
over  a  little.  Another  boom !  louder — and  she 
shakes  and  keels  over  more.  Another  one  the 
same.  By  this  time  everybody  is  sticking  up  an 
ear  and  sorta  drawing  their  shoulders  together, 
like  they're  expecting  a  good  one.  Me  too. 

93 


Hiker  Joy 

And  it  comes.  Bam ! — quick,  like  it's  just 
over  the  roof.  Cr-r-r-er!  goes  the  212  shivering 
and  shaking,  with  four  or  five  guys  knocked 
down  onto  the  deck,  and  a  coupla  more  who're 
off  watch  and  lying  down  in  their  bunks  come 
tumbling  onto  the  floor. 

There's  another  one  comes,  Ba-am  !  and  when  it 
does — "Here  we  go!"  I  say,  meaning  it's  the 
finisher.  The  lights  go  out  with  it,  and  all  over 
the  place  I  can  hear  men  banging  around  and  say- 
ing things.  And  then  I  hear  the  Herr  Kapitan's 
voice,  and  soon  a  coupla  guys  come  with  a  flash- 
light and  they  look  at  a  few  things,  and  bimeby 
the  lights  come  on.  There's  a  coupla  more 
bombs  while  they're  tending  to  the  lights,  but 
nothing  real  bad. 

Nobody  says  much  for  a  while;  and  another 
while  before  there's  any  easing-away  by  the  men 
standing  by  their  gadgets.  Bimeby,  a  long  while 
after,  the  Herr  Kapitan  sends  her  up  to  where  he 
can  have  a  peek  through  the  periscope;  and  when 
he  does,  looking  all  around  he  says  something  like 
he's  pleased,  and  pretty  soon  she  goes  to  the  top 
and  the  hatches  are  lifted  and  the  cool  fresh  air 
comes  floating  down,  and  it  smelled  good. 

It's  dark  then — I  can  see  the  stars  through  the 
hatches;  and  they  rig  up  the  wireless,  and  pretty 
soon  they're  grabbing  off  messages  about  the  big 

94 


The  Undersea  Men 

ship  and  pasting  them  in  a  glass  frame  after  the 
officers  read  'em.  One  of  them  the  Herr  Kapitan 
reads  out  loud.  The  big  ship  is  gone  down  and 
the  American  destroyers  are  picking  people  out 
of  the  boats.  Then  everybody  begins  to  feel 
better,  and  somebody  sets  going  a  phonograph 
they  got. 

They  have  supper,  and  when  they  do  a  radio 
man  comes  off  watch  with  more  news  of  the  big 
ship.  The  torpedo  man  Fred,  who  never  used 
to  take  much  notice  of  anything  except  his  job, 
is  sitting  near  the  wireless  man  eating,  and  he 
turns  around  and  asts  the  wireless  man  something 
in  German,  and  the  wireless  man  answers  him. 
And  when  he  does,  Fred  goes  over  and  begins  to 
read  the  messages  in  the  glass  frame.  There's 
names  of  people  killed  on  the  big  ship  among 
them. 

He  comes  back  without  saying  anything,  but 
he  sorta  plays  with  his  grub  for  the  rest  of  the 
meal.  Bimeby  he's  sitting  on  the  edge  of  his 
bunk,  not  saying  anything  to  anybody  but  look- 
ing like  he's  doing  a  lot  o'  thinking,  and  Emile 
gets  talking  to  him,  me  near  them.  All  at  once 
"Wow!"  I  hear  Emile  say— "but  that's  tough  !" 
in  English. 

Fred  begins  to  talk  English  to  Emile  then, 
saying  how  he'd  lived  as  much  in  England  as  in 

95 


Hiker  Joy 

Germany  before  the  war,  and  what  could  be  more 
pleasant  than  the  way  they  were  getting  on  ?  No 
two  countries  in  the  world  were  more  friendly  to 
each  other,  so  many  interests  in  common.  And 
now  this  terrible  war  ! 

"And  to  think  it  was  my  hand,  Emile,  which 
fired  that  torpedo!"  he  says  bimeby. 

"Why  how  can  you  be  blamed  for  that  ?"  says 
Emile.  "You  might  as  well  be  blamin'  somebody 
ashore.  We're  all  ony  doin'  what  you  got  to 
do/' 

Fred  don't  say  any  more.  He  rolls  into  his 
cot,  and  soon  it's  all  over  the  ship  that  Fred's 
two  sisters  were  married  to  Englishmen  and  one 
of  them  is  the  chief  engineer  of  the  big  ship,  and 
both  of  'em  on  the  list  of  killed  that  the  radio  man 
grabbed  off  by  wireless. 

"Fred  ought  never  been  in  this  game,"  says 
Emile.  "His  mind  runs  too  much  one  way,  and 
he  never  did  carry  enough  ballast  tanks  for 
emergencies." 

In  the  morning  Fred  ain't  there  at  his  torpedo 
station.  I  ask  Emile  where  is  he  ? 

"Fred's  dead!"  says  Emile,  and  the  way  he 
says  it  I  don't  ast  him  what  he  died  of. 

Bimeby  the  captain  goes  and  looks  at  where 
Fred  is  in  his  bunk,  and  he  says  something  and  a 
coupla  guys  wrap  a  blanket  around  him  and  put 

96 


The  Undersea  Men 

him  next  to  Denton,  who's  been  lying  in  a  top 
bunk  since  the  morning  I  come  aboard. 

For  the  next  few  days  nothing  special  happens, 
except  the  crew  keep  looking  up  at  the  two  dead 
men  and  talking  about  them,  and  bimeby  one  of 
them  goes  up  and  asts  the  captain  is  he  going  to 
keep  them  there.  And  Emile  tells  me  he  says: 
"Why  o'  course,  and  bring  'em  back  to  Germany 
at  the  end  o'  the  cruise." 

"  But  two  weeks  more — the  men  '11  never  stand 
'em  that  long,"  says  Emile. 

That  same  day  they  run  her  in  shoal  water, 
to  put  her  on  bottom  and  look  over  her  machin- 
ery, which  ain't  been  working  right  since  the 
bombing. 

The  first  thing  when  she  gets  there  is,  for  all 
who  don't  have  to  work  on  the  machinery  to  take 
a  loaf.  Some  go  to  sleep,  and  some  get  busy  with 
the  phonograph.  Others  play  a  game  that  ain't 
poker  or  forty-fives  or  high-low  jack — some 
German  game  with  what  they  called  fennies  for 
stakes.  If  a  guy  was  in  hard  luck  he  maybe  lost 
thirty  or  forty  fennies,  which  is  about  a  nickel,  in  a 
nour.  And  maybe  a  good  thing  it  was  that  way, 
for  having  to  lose  your  money  and  be  in  a  U-boat 
the  same  time — being  outa  luck  I'd  call  it. 

There's  something  besides  machinery  the  mat- 
ter with  the  U-boat  and  everybody  soon  knew  it 

97 


Hiker  Joy 

next  day.  They  found  they'd  put  her  on  the  edge 
of  a  cliff  like  to  lay  in  under  water,  and  if  a  storm 
come  and  rolled  her  the  wrong  way,  it'd  be  all 
over  with  them.  The  engineer  and  the  kapitan 
have  a  session,  and  the  kapitan  orders  a  lot  of 
men  to  their  stations  to  start  her  up.  She  lifts 
fine  at  the  bow  end,  but  the  stern  end  lies  right 
down  and  stays  down.  They  try  it  again  and 
she  don't  budge,  though  the  bow  goes  so  high  and 
the  deck  slopes  so  much,  everybody  who  ain't 
hanging  onto  something  takes  a  slide,  and  down 
from  the  top  bunk  the  two  corpses  land  onto  the 
floor. 

Somebody  says  then  that  the  corpses  are  bad 
luck  and  they  oughta  dump  'em  oberboard,  and 
the  Herr  Kapitan,  who's  a  neasy  kind  of  a  guy, 
he  says  all  right,  to  wrap  'em  up,  and  at  dark 
he'd  shoot  'em  through  the  torpedo  tubes  and  out 
the  way. 

That's  in  the  morning.  The  place  being  lit 
up  like  a  subway  car  all  the  time,  the  only  way 
I  know  it's  morning  and  not  night  is  by  the 
meals.  It's  after  breakfast,  and  I  get  to  thinking 
about  where  I  get  off  if  anything  happens  the  212. 
So  I  go  up  to  Emile  saying : 

"Emile,  it's  all  fine  for  you  an'  the  gang  aboard 
here  to  sink  ships;  and  if  a  ship  sinks  you,  then  fine 
for  her.  Whatever  happens,  it's  fine  for  some- 


The  Undersea  Men 

body  but  me.  Suppose  anything  happens  and  I 
go  to  the  bottom?" 

"S'pose  you  do,  don't  everybody  go  too  ?" 

"Sure,  but  you  picked  this  job.  I  didn't. 
And  there's  somethin'  comin'  to  you  if  you  do  go. 
Back  in  Germany  there'll  be  people  saying  great 
things  about  you,  but  there'll  be  nobody  hanging 
any  crape  on  any  door  knobs  for  me  if  I  go — 
even  if  they  know  when  I  go,  which  they  never 
will  if  I  go  down  with  this  boat." 

"What  you  drivin'  at  ?"  asts  Emile. 

"I  been  looking  at  the  dead  guys,"  I  says. 
"If  you  can  shoot  a  dead  guy  out  of  a  torpedo 
tube,  why  can't  you  shoot  a  live  one  ? " 

"We  can." 

"Then  shoot  me  out  while  we're  so  handy  to 
the  shore,  and  let  me  get  away." 

Emile  studies  it  out,  and  then  he  looks  at  the 
depth  gauge,  and  says :  "  We're  fifteen  metres 
down,  about  fifty  foot  deep — too  deep.  The 
change  in  pressure  'd  kill  yuh  before  yuh  got  to 
the  top." 

"How  much  is  eleven  metres  ?" 

"About  thirty-six  feet." 

"This  morning  the  depth  gauge  said  eleven 
metres — I  been  watching  it — meaning  low  tide 
o'  course,  and  it'll  be  low  tide  again  to-night,  and 
if  I  c'n  dive  V  pick  up  mud  in  thirty  foot  o' 

99 


Hiker  Joy 

water  off  a  Yeast  River  dock  just  to  show  a  bunch 
o'  loafers  I  c'd  do  it,  I  guess  I  c'n  stand  a  few  foot 
more  if  it'll  take  me  out  of  a  U-boat." 

Emile's  always  been  pretty  friendly  to  me,  and 
now  he  takes  me  to  the  captain,  and  I  talk  to  him. 
He  listens,  and  then  he  asts  me  would  I  risk  being 
blown  from  a  torpedo  tube. 

"Slam  me  into  one  and  see,"  I  says. 

He  asts  me  then  how  long  I  ever  held  my  breath 
under  water. 

"I  dunno.  As  long  as  I  had  to  up  to  now," 
I  says. 

He  eyes  me.     "I  will  consider  it,"  he  says. 

After  supper,  which  is  low  tide,  they  take  the 
two  corpses  and  hook  weights  onto  'em — that's 
so  they  won't  go  drifting  all  over  the  ocean  when 
they  shoot  them  out.  While  they're  doing  that 
the  captain  is  talking  to  Emile,  who  bimeby  comes 
over  and  says: 

"I  just  told  the  Herr  Kapitan,  Hiker,  that  I 
know  yuh,  and  he  c'n  lay  down  his  last  white  chip 
that  if  you  make  it  safe,  you'll  keep  your  mouth 
shut  about  where  you  come  from.  That's  right, 
ain't  it?" 

"Emile,"  I  says,  "I  never  yet  opened  my 
mouth  to  hurt  anybody  who'd  been  half-way 
good  to  me,  and  I  prob'ly  won't  now.  Is  that 
good  enough  ?" 

100 


The  Undersea  Men- 

Emile  looks  at  the  Herr  Kapitan,  who  is  listen- 
ing, and  then  back  to  me:  "He  says  to  get  ready, 
Hiker." 

I  kick  off  my  sneakers  and  get  outa  my 
jacket. 

"Better  take  off  everything,"  says  Emile. 

"HI  maybe  need  my  shirt  and  pants  when  I 
hit  the  beach  to  keep  warm,"  I  says;  but  what  I 
was  thinking  was:  "If  I  take  off  any  more,  they'll 
see  the  belt  around  my  waist." 

There's  two  men  saying  prayers  over  the  two 
corpses.  I  ast  Emile  does  he  s'pose  they'd  say  a 
few  for  me. 

"I'll  ask  them,"  says  Emile. 

"And  when  do  the  dead  guys  go  ?" 

"Right  after  you." 

"  Jeezooks  !  gimme  a  little  start  will  yuh  ?  A 
corpse  is  no  fine  thing  to  have  come  whistling  by 
my  ear,  Emile,"  I  says. 

I  shake  hands  all  around.  "Wee  gates,  Herr 
Kapitan !"  I  say  when  I  come  to  him.  "You 
treated  me  all  right — meaning  more  than  my  free 
board  'n'  lodging  by  that." 

"Mein  knabber!"  he  says,  and  then  "Auf 
wiedersehn !"  and  pats  me  on  the  head. 

The  torpedo  guy  who  took  Fred's  place  starts 
to  open  up  one  of  the  torpedo  tubes  low  down, 
but  Emile  tells  him  to  give  me  a  top  tube.  "It's 

101 


Hiker  Joy 

a  coupla  feet  nearer  the  air,"  says  Emile,  "and 
every  foot  '11  maybe  count." 

So  the  guy  opens  a  top  tube  and  I  climb  into  it. 

"I  hope  you  make  it,"  says  Emile,  "though 
I'd  rather  take  my  chances  here  myself." 

"Then  we're  both  suited,"  I  say. 

Going  into  the  tube  is  like  crawling  through  a 
section  of  sewer  pipe.  I  reach  the  other  end. 
"All  right!"  I  holler  back. 

"Got  yuh !"  hollers  Emile.  "When  I  begin  to 
count,  you  begin  to  take  in  your  breath.  When 
I  say  three,  we  slam  this  end  shut,  open  up  your 
end,  and  out  you  go.  Ready?" 

"All  set,  and  so  long!" 

"One!"  says  Emile.  "Tw-o-!  Thr-e-e-ee — 
and  good  luck  ! " 

Wang !  the  breech  slams  behind  me.  I  take 
in  air  and  wait.  I  can  hear  the  valves  opening, 
and  br-rr-rr — and  wo-oo-sh-sh — it  comes,  the 
whole  ocean  flowing  in  on  top  of  me.  Back  it 
starts  to  sweep  me,  and  then —  Zwizz !  comes 
the  pressed  air  or  whatever  it  is  and  out  the  tube 
I  go  about  forty  miles  an  hour. 

A  guy  shooting  up  Niagara  Falls  'd  feel  the 
way  I  did,  I  guess,  and  there's  enough  air  inside 
me  to  blow  out  a  young  balloon.  Bimeby  the 
ocean  stops  rushing  by  my  ears,  and  when  it  does 
I  begin  to  kick  and  throw  up  my  head,  and  to 

102 


The  Undersea  Men 

kick  and  to  crawl  with  my  arms  and  legs  all  I 
know  how.  I  dunno  how  long  I  was  under,  but 
longer  than  I'll  pick  out  again,  if  I  have  the  pick- 
ing; and  when  I  come  to  the  top,  if  anybody 'd 
been  there  to  see,  they'd  seen  me  shooting  about 
five  feet  into  the  air. 

But  there  was  nobody  there  to  see. 

It  was  a  moonshiny  night,  and  when  I  get  my 
breath  going  right  again  and  make  sure  my  ears 
are  still  tied  to  my  head,  I  look  around.  There's 
a  low  shore  maybe  a  coupla  miles  away.  Well, 
that's  all  right,  and  I  head  for  it,  swimming  easy. 
Every  few  minutes  I'd  raise  my  head  to  see  was 
it  still  there.  One  time  after  I'd  been  swimming 
maybe  half  an  hour  I  look  again  if  it's  still  there, 
and  I  see  it  is,  but  I  see  something,  too,  like  a 
bird  playing  tag  with  itself  in  the  moonshine.  It 
drops  and  it  flops,  and  (Jrops  again.  I  know  then 
it's  a  flying  machine  in  some  kinda  trouble. 

It  lands  on  the  water,  and  when  it  does  I 
head  for  it,  taking  maybe  half  an  hour  to  make  it. 
I  don't  know  whether  it's  an  ally  or  a  German 
and  I  don't  care — I'm  feeling  lonesome. 

It's  one  of  those  navy  airplanes,  I  see,  with  a 
boat  shaped  like  a  fish  in  the  middle  of  it  when 
I  swim  up  to  it.  I  grab  hold  of  the  boat  part, 
and  there's  a  fuhla  tinkering  on  something. 
I'd  like  to  waited  till  he  got  through,  but  I'm 

103 


Hiker  Joy 

beginning  to  feel  cold.  And  tired.  So  "Hi 
there!"  I  holler;  and  when  I  do,  around  he 
comes  spinning  with  what  I  can  see  is  a  good- 
sized  wrench.  He  leans  over  like  he's  going  to 
soak  me  one  and  when  he  does  I  duck  under 
water. 

I  come  up  a  coupla  yards  away,  and  when  I  do : 
"For  th'  Lord's  sake!  Who  are  you  and  where 
did  you  come  from  ?"  he  says. 

"The  Crown  Prince  o'  Germany — who  else?" 
I  says.  "But  will  yuh  lay  off  that  yeggman  stuff 
and  give  a  lift  to  a  fuhla  who's  just  swam  about 
half-way  acrost  the  Yatlantic?" 

"What — ony  a  boy!"  he  says,  and  helps  me 
up. 

He  gives  me  time  to  stand  up,  and  then  he  says: 
"How  you  feeling  now  ?" 

"I  think  my  feet  are  a  little  wet,"  I  say. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  says,  and  grabs  a  kinda 
Teddy  Bear  suit  and  slides  me  into  it  and  shoves 
me  into  a  little  round  hole  in  the  boat.  And  I 
curl  up  there,  and  making  sure  I  still  got  the 
belt,  I  say  to  myself:  "Pretty  soft  for  you, 
Hiker!"  And  having  nothing  else  to  do,  I  flop 
off  to  sleep. 


104 


Good-bye  the  Horse- Boat 

1ASK  Bill  to  look  over  what  I've  wrote  up  to 
where  I  get  outa  the  U-boat,  and  he  does;  and 
when  he's  read  it  he  draws  up  his  chair  and  says: 

"Whoever's  tellin'  a  story  is  like  the  captain 
of  a  company  who  oughta  know  where  everybody 
is  when  he's  marching  'em  along.  He  mustn't 
leave  any  stragglers  along  the  road.  What 
youghta  do  now  is  tell  what  brought  Mr.  Nugent 
to  the  horse-boat  an'  what  happened  him  an'  the 
rest  of  us,  before  everybody  forgets  all  about  us." 

"But  how?"  I  says.  "It's  easy  enough  tellin' 
about  things  happenin'  when  I'm  right  there  to 
see  'em  happen,  but  how  do  I  tell  about  things 
happenin'  when  I  yain't  there  ?" 

"I  knew  a  fuhla  once,"  says  Bill,  "I  yused  to 
meet  him  along  the  Yeast  River,  and  he  looked 
'nd  acted  like  'most  anybody  else,  sittin'  in  'nd 
havin'  a  beer  like  he  liked  it,  an'  not  mindin'  much 
where  he  got  it  so  it  was  all  right,  and  not  kickin' 
when  it  wasn't  if  the  barkeep  or  the  waiter  was 
all  right. 

"This  fuhla  writes  stories.  I  read  a  lot  of  'em 
in  magazines  'n'  books  in  the  Yastor  Libry,  and 

105 


Hiker  Joy 

some  of  'em  wasn't  bad  a  tall.  An*  he  didn't 
care  who  he  wrote  about — barbers  'n'  barkeeps, 
cops  'n'  longshoremen  suited  him  as  good  as  any- 
body else.  I  ast  him  one  day  why  he  didn't 
stick  in  a  duchess  or  a  few  kings  once  in  a  while 
to  his  stories  ? 

"  'Maybe  I  would  if  I  knew  a  few.  Do  you 
know  any?'  he  says. 

"  'They  ain't  been  many  of  'em  rollin'  up  to  my 
door  lately,'  I  says.  'But  do  yuh  mean  yuh 
have  to  know  something  about  the  kind  o*  peo- 
ple you  write  about  ? '  I  says. 

"'It  makes  it  less  painful  for  some  of  your 
readers,'  he  says. 

"'Well,  I  was  readin'  a  novel  the  other  day 
about  the  kind  o'  people  I  know  somethin'  about, 
and  that  didn't  hold,  and  it  was  a  best  seller,'  I 
says. 

'  'Proving  again  that  people  like  to  be  kidded 
along.  But  I  thought  we  were  speaking  of  stories, 
not  novels.' 

'"What's  the  difference?'  I  says. 

"  'Generally  a  few  hundred  pages.  A  novel  is 
mostly  talky  talky,  and  a  story  mostly  doing, 
isn't  it?' 

''But  how  does  a  man  go  about  writing  a 
story  ?'  I  ask  him. 

"  'I  don't  know's  he  goes  about  it  at  all,'  he 
106 


Good-bye  the  Horse-Boat 

says.     'Aren't  stories  all  the  time  bouncing  up  in 
front  of  you  ? ' 

"And  he  tells  me  a  lot  more  about  writing 
stories.  An'  he  bein*  the  ony  author  ever  I  met 
face  to  face  I  listen.  And  here's  my  dope  about  it, 
Hiker,  after  he  gets  through:  Suppose  something 
happens  to  you  ?" 

"Happens  where?"  I  says. 

"Anywhere.    In  your  mind  if  no  place  else." 

"How  could  anything  happen  in  my  mind?"  I 
says. 

"Why  couldn't  it,  as  well  as  in  a  back  yard  or  a 
palace  or  a  bar-room  ?  Why  couldn't  one  of  those 
what  they  call  ideas  strike  your  mind  and  make 
you  take  notice  same  as  a  guy  wallopin'  you  in 
the  back  of  the  head  with  half  a  brick  ?" 

"I  dunno  why  not,  but  I  think  I'd  take  more 
notice  of  the  brick,"  I  says. 

"Maybe  I  would  too.  But  listen  to  me  and 
get  this  dope  about  tellin'  a  story.  Something 
happens  to  me,  say,  and  tellin'  you  about  it  maybe 
I  add  on  a  little.  And  you  tellin'  somebody  else, 
maybe  you  add  on  a  little.  So  I  add  a  little  and 
you  add  a  little,  and  between  the  two  of  us  we'll 
maybe  get  a  story." 

"Yeah,  but  where'll  I  be  addin'  it  from  ?"  I 
says. 

"From  yimagination,  where  else?" 
107 


Hiker  Joy 

"But  I  got  no  magination  to  be  addin*  to  any- 
thing," I  says. 

)"Nor  me  either,"  says  Bill.  "But  anyway 
here's  a  wallop  at  what  you  left  out  of  what  hap- 
pened on  the  hoss-boat,  an'  I'll  tell  it  the  way  it 
happened." 

"Oughtn't  yuh  write  it  yuhself  ?"  I  says. 

"I  coupla  times  thought  o'  that,"  says  Bill. 
"I  dunno  but  I  will,  an'  maybe  I  c'n  put  more 
class  into  my  writin'  than  you  been  gettin'  into 
my  talk." 

So  whoever  don't  like  the  next  story  can  tell 
it  to  Bill,  not  me. 

The  morning  after  Mr.  Nugent  killed  Soover 
(this  is  Bill  writing  now),  that  navy  intelligence 
captain  in  New  York  calls  Mr,  Nugent  and  me 
into  his  office.  He  gives  me  a  few  instructions 
and  then  asks  Nugent  how  he  feels  about  tackling 
another  little  secret  service  job. 

Nugent  don't  feel  like  it  at  all.  He's  a  navy 
lieutenant  and  wants  to  get  across,  and  onto  his 
reg'lar  job,  which  is  on  a  destroyer  chasing  U-- 
boats, and  he  reminds  the  chief  of  that,  and  how 
the  chief  had  promised  to  help  him  along  after  he'd 
drove  that  gang  of  bomb  men  out  of  Brooklyn. 

Now  of  course  the  chief  could  have  ordered 
Nugent  to  do  whatever  he  wanted  him  to  do; 

108 


Good-bye  the  Horse- Boat 

but  the  chief  is  no  rough  file — not  when  he  wants 
to  smooth  a  guy  down.  He's  looking  at  a  news- 
paper with  a  picture  in  it  of  a  steamer.  "Here's 
the  ship,"  says  the  chief,  "which  ran  down  that 
U-boat — remember  her  ? — that  one  which  made 
believe  to  surrender  last  month  and  then  up- 
steam  and  rammed  and  sunk  the  sub  ?" 

"I  remember  her,"  says  Nugent.  "But  all's 
fair  in  war,  isn't  it  ? " 

"If  you  can  get  away  with  it,"  says  the  chief, 
looking  at  his  wrist  watch;  and  not  saying  any 
more  till  a  clerk  comes  in  to  tell  him  that  Mr. 
Rush  and  his  secretary  are  outside. 

"Show  them  in  when  I  ring,"  says  the  chief. 

"This  Mr.  Rush,"  says  the  chief  to  us  when  the 
clerk  goes  out,  "is  the  inventor  of  that  new  bul- 
let which  can  penetrate  and  set  fire  to  airplane 
tanks." 

"That  so  ?  A  great  thing  if  he's  got  it,"  says 
Nugent. 

"He's  got  it.  We're  making  them  now.  And 
the  Allies  are  to  make  them,  which  means  that  Mr. 
Rush  and  his  secretary  are  leaving  soon  for  over 
there  to  show  them  how  to  make  them." 

"I  know  now,"  says  Nugent — "he's  the  man 
was  to  sail  on  that  passenger  liner  next  Monday." 

"Was  but  isn't.  That  liner  won't  be  able  to 
sail  for  another  two  weeks,  so  he  is  going  over  on 

109 


Hiker  Joy 

this  ship  I  just  showed  you,  the  Bucephalus.  But 
I've  a  fear,  which  is  growing  larger  in  me,  that 
she's  a  marked  ship,  that  some  U-boat  will  get 
her,  which  means  they  may  get  him  too — and  his 
secretary." 

"Well,  it's  all  part  of  the  war  game — the  risk 
—isn't  it,  sir?"  says  Nugent. 

"Sure,"  says  the  chief.  "But  think  of  a  lovely 
young  girl  taking  a  chance  like  that." 

"What  lovely  young  girl  ?"  says  Nugent. 

"His  niece,  Miss  Rush,  is  his  secretary.  But 
will  you  both  step  into  the  other  room  now  ? " 

We  step  into  the  other  room,  and  Mr.  Rush 
and  his  niece  come  in.  And  the  door  between 
tlie  rooms  being  open,  we  can't  help  seeing  Mr. 
Rush  and  his  niece,  meaning  the  chief  wants  Mr. 
Nugent  to  see  them,  I  guess.  When  they  leave, 
Nugent  goes  bouncing  in  to  the  chief  saying: 
"It's  not  right,  sir,  to  let  a  young  girl  like  that 
take  that  risk." 

"I'm  thinking  the  same  thing,"  says  the  chief. 
"No  harm  if  some  capable  party  was  at  hand 
when  needed.  Bill  could  do  it  perhaps,  but  I'd 
rather  Bill  went  on  the  lumber  schooner  job.  Do 
you  want  to  cross  on  that  ship  ?" 

Of  course  Nugent  wants  to,  and  so  it  came  to 
pass  that  about  the  time  we're  shoving  off  in  the 
old  lumber  schooner,  Nugent  is  in  Norfolk  with 

no 


Good-bye  the  Horse-Boat 

papers  to  show  he's  an  English  citizen  and  in- 
quiring how  he  can  get  a  passage  to  Eng- 
land. 

Somebody  points  out  the  Bucephalus,  and  he's 
sitting  on  a  box  on  her  wharf  that  he  knows  holds 
shells  though  they're  not  so  marked,  wondering 
how  he'll  get  aboard  her  without  calling  too  much 
attention  to  himself,  when  one  of  the  ship's 
officers  steps  up  to  him  and  says: 

"My  man,  how  would  a  ten-pound  note  look  to 
you  for  your  next  month's  time  on  that  ship 
there — the  work  not  too  hard,  and  the  sight  o' 
foreign  lands  to  pleasure  your  eyes  after  a  nice 
twelve  days  at  sea  ? " 

A  ten-pound  note  or  no-pound  note  would've 
suited  Nugent;  but  to  go  through  with  it  right  he 
says  a  fifteen-pound  note  would  look  better. 
They  split  on  eleven,  and  the  officer  takes  him 
aboard  and  introduces  him  to  a  can  of  gray  paint 
and  a  wide  brush,  and  tells  him  to  get  busy. 
And  they  put  out  for  sea,  with  Nugent  painting 
the  bridge  within  ten  feet  of  where  Miss  Rush  is 
talking  to  the  first  officer,  one  of  the  guys  that 
Nugent  is  to  keep  a  special  eye  on. 

By  and  by  when  the  lumber  schooner's  wrecked, 
which  isn't  part  of  the  plan  at  all,  and  we're 
picked  off  the  raft  by  the  ship  Nugent's  on,  he 
don't  let  on  to  notice  Hiker  or  me  but  he  slips  me 

in 


Hiker  Joy 

the  word  early  to  keep  a  special  eye  out  for  a 
horseman,  called  Clews. 

"That  guy  ?  Why  he's  shoutin'  all  the  time  for 
the  Allies  down  between  the  decks ! " 

"That's  all  right,"  says  Nugent  when  I  report. 
"Some  of  the  best  little  spies  of  both  sides  are 
shouting  from  the  housetops  for  the  other  side. 
Keep  your  eye  on  him  just  the  same." 

To  keep  an  eye  on  Clews  I  loaf  a  lot  among  the 
horsemen,  'specially  with  one  of  them  named 
Lefty  Hall,  who's  an  old-time  cavalry  bugler. 
Lefty  liked  to  lie  in  among  the  hay  below  the  horse 
deck  smoking  cigarettes  where  he  thinks  the 
officers  won't  see  him,  and  blowing  army  calls  on 
an  old  brassy  cornet  he  carried  around  his  neck 
on  a  string.  Clews  don't  like  Lefty  much,  and 
one  day  when  Lefty  falls  to  sleep  smoking  and 
starts  a  fire  among  the  hay,  Clews  tips  off  the 
first  officer,  who  comes  along  and  begin  to  sniffs. 

"Do  I  smell  something?"  says  the  first  officer. 
Smell  ?  He  could  Ve  carried  a  button  for  a  nose 
and  half  the  ship's  length  away  smelled  the  half 
bale  of  hay  that  was  scorched  before  we'd  got 
the  fire  put  out. 

"I  do  smell  something,"  he  says,  pointing  his 
beak  for'ard  and  then  aft.  "I'm  quite  certain  I 
do,  and  it  is  smoke,"  he  says,  and  dives  and  grabs 
old  Lefty,  who's  rheumatic  and  slow  on  his  feet, 

112 


Good-bye  the  Horse-Boat 

and  puts  him  in  the  brig  which  is  two  decks  still 
lower  down,  and  which  only  the  ship's  carpenter 
has  the  keys  of.  And  going  into  the  brig,  Lefty 
hollers  to  me  not  to  forget  to  have  a  look  out  for 
his  pet  horse,  a  bay  he'd  named  General  because 
he  looked  like  Lefty's  troop  horse  in  the  old  Seventh 
Cavalry. 

Then  comes  the  night  when  Hiker  and  Worts 
and  the  man  called  Denton  disappear  with  a 
lifeboat  in  the  night. 

"Poor  Hiker,"  says  Nugent.  "I'm  afraid 
he's  gone!"  And  I'm  thinking  the  same. 

Bimeby  we're  in  sight  o'  land  and  we're  all 
saying  how  fine  it  will  be  to  be  ashore.  But 
there's  no  being  ashore  soon.  Some  kind  of  a 
warning  comes  by  wireless  and  away  the  ship 
goes  off-shore  again. 

That  same  afternoon  I'm  on  the  top  deck  look- 
ing out  over  the  ocean,  which  is  oily  smooth  and 
quiet  as  if  old  Neptune  is  asleep,  but  a  long 
heavy  swell  under  the  oily  smooth  blackness 
shows  the  old  fellow's  breathing  in  his  sleep. 
By  and  by  I  could  'most  hear  him  snoring;  that 
was  when  the  swell  would  roll  up  to  the  sides  of 
the  ship  and  lift  her  up  and  let  her  down  again. 

It  comes  sunset  time,  only  there's  no  sun — 
nothing  but  round,  fat  clouds  above  the  horizon 
in  the  west.  It  don't  look  good  to  me.  Up  on 


Hiker  Joy 

the  bridge  is  Miss  Rush  and  her  uncle  walking 
with  the  first  officer,  and  that  don't  look  too  good 
to  me  either;  but  I  spot  Nugent  tucked  away  be- 
hind a  winch  making  believe  to  be  busy  when 
anybody  comes  by,  but  watching  the  people  on 
the  bridge,  which  makes  me  feel  better. 

Coming  across  the  ocean  we'd  been  having  life- 
boat drill,  meaning  that  two  or  three  times  a  day 
they'd  blow  a  whistle,  and  when  they  did  we'd  all 
grab  our  life-belts  and  run  up  to  the  boat  deck 
and  stand  by  life-boats  and  rafts  till  they  blew 
another  whistle,  and  when  they  did  we  took  off 
our  life-belts  and  went  back  below. 

A  few  days  of  that  and  we  get  so  good  we  can 
make  the  boat  deck  without  knocking  each  other 
off  the  ladders  going  up,  and  so  we  don't  hurry 
doing  it  any  more,  and  if  any  of  us  down  among 
the  hay  happen  to  be  playing  a  little  game  when 
the  U-boat  signal  blows  we  play  the  hand  out; 
because  leaving  your  money,  and  a  gang  of  horse- 
boat  men,  to  hurry  on  deck — well,  it  ain't  giving 
your  money  much  of  a  show. 

We're  through  supper  but  there's  still  plenty 
of  light,  and  we're  having  a  game  of  red  dog  this 
evening  below,  when  without  any  U-boat  whistles, 
or  anything  else  blowing,  we  feel  the  deck  rising 
up  under  us  and  throwing  us  all  over  the  hay. 
Everybody  beats  it  for  the  boat  deck,  me  sprint- 

114 


Good-bye  the  Horse-Boat 

ing  with  the  best  of  them,  when  I  see  the  ship's 
carpenter,  which  makes  me  remember  Lefty 
Hall  is  in  the  brig.  I  asks  the  carpenter  did  he 
let  Lefty  out,  and  he  says — "Bly-me,  I  never 
thought  of  'im!"  So  he  slips  me  the  brig  key 
off  his  bunch  and  I  rush  down  and  let  Lefty  out. 

"We  been  torpedoed  or  mined  or  something" 
I  says. 

"You  don't  have  to  tell  me — I  been  torpedoed 
before,  and  it's  good-bye  the  horse-boat!"  says 
Lefty,  and  beats  me  about  ten  yards  to  the  near- 
est ladder  with  his  old  cornet  hanging  round  his 
neck  by  a  string.  We're  going  up  ladders  like 
a  couple  of  firemen,  when  we  hear  the  horses 
whinnying  and  kicking  in  their  stalls.  Lefty 
stops. 

"How  about  the  hosses  ?  Oughtn't  they  have 
a  chance,  Bill?"  he  says. 

I'm  strong  for  keeping  moving,  but  it  is  kind 
of  tough  on  the  horses,  so  I  go  back  below  with 
Lefty  and  turn  them  loose  from  their  stalls. 

There's  a  loading  port  on  the  horse  deck,  and 
by  the  time  we  get  them  free  the  sea  is  'most  up 
to  there;  and  we  throw  the  port  open,  and  the 
first  of  the  horses  rush  up  to  it  and  stick  their 
heads  out  and  sniff  and  draw  back,  till  Lefty 
says: 

"We  gotta  do  it,  Bill.     They  mustn't  be  let 


Hiker  Joy 

drown  like  there's  nobody  cares  for  'em,"  and 
hits  the  first  one  on  the  rump  and  he  dives  over- 
board, and  the  others  dive  after  him,  and  we  can 
hear  'em  splashing  one  after  the  other  into  the 
ocean  while  we're  running  up  to  the  boat  deck. 

When  we  get  up  there  all  the  boats  are  gone  and 
rowing  away  from  the  side  of  the  ship — and  all 
the  officers  and  crew  gone  with  them,  all  but  Mr. 
Nugent  who  comes  rushing  up  to  me  saying: 

"I've  been  waiting  for  you.  Listen  and  get 
this:  The  first  officer  put  Mr.  Rush  in  a  life-boat 
with  Clews.  Find  that  boat  and  get  in  with 
them.  Your  job  is  to  bring  Mr.  Rush  safe  ashore. 
Got  anything — pistol  or  knife?" 

"I  got  a  knife,"  I  says. 

"Use  it  if  you  have  to.  Clews  is  your  man, 
remember,  and  he's  probably  got  a  pistol.  Good 
luck  to  you.  I've  got  to  see  that  nothing  hap- 
pens Miss  Rush  through  that  first  officer";  and 
away  he  goes  sliding  down  a  boat-falls. 

"Ketch  holt,  Lefty !"  I  says,  and  we  shove  over 
a  raft,  which  is  easy  enough,  the  deck  being  so 
slanting;  and  we  jump  over  and  climb  up  on  the 
raft. 

By  then  the  sea  all  around  is  crowded  with 
swimming  horses,  most  of  'em  trying  to  catch 
up  with  the  boats  rowing  away  from  the  ship. 
There's  one  horse  leaves  the  others  and  heads  for 

116 


OJ      3 

S  ° 
o  s 


Good-bye  the  Horse-Boat 

our  raft,  and  when  he  gets  near:  "Look  at  old 
General !"  says  Lefty.  "Ain't  he  the  wise  one  ?" 

Lefty  takes  hold  of  General's  head  rope  and 
General  he  whinnies  like  he's  lonesome,  and  Lefty 
sits  on  the  edge  of  the  raft  and  talks  to  him. 

"I  know  what  you're  thinkin'  of,  old  General," 
says  Lefty.  "Your  dream  it  was  to  go — when  it 
come  your  time  to  go — aridin'  into  battle  to  a 
bugle  call,  with  some  trooper  you  liked  and  that 
liked  you  on  your  back.  But  it  ain't  to  be,  old 
General,"  says  Lefty,  and  General  snuggles  his 
nose  right  up  to  Lefty's  like  he  knows  it  ain't  to  be. 

It's  getting  dark.  We  can  hardly  see  the  other 
horses  or  maybe  the  heads  of  'em  rearing  up  out 
the  water;  but  when  we  can't  see  we  can  hear 
them  plain — splashing  and  whinnying  and  snort- 
ing from  out  of  the  dark.  Soon  come  gurgling 
sounds,  meaning  they're  drowning,  and  old  Lefty 
keeping  count  of  'em  and  saying:  "Seven.  An- 
other one — eight.  One  more — nine.  Ain't  it 
a  hell  of  a  death  for  a  good  hoss,  Bill  ?" 

Old  General  is  all  the  time  getting  heavy  on 
his  head-rope,  with  Lefty  talking  to  him  and  lift- 
ing his  head  to  help  him.  I  slip  the  head-rope 
through  a  ring  on  the  raft  so's  to  make  it  more 
easy  all  round,  which  it  did  a  little,  till  General 
gets  so  tired  he  falls  away  from  the  raft,  with  his 
head  dragging  under  and  he  choking  and  splutter- 

117 


Hiker  Joy 

ing  and  rearing  up  his  head  and  trying  to  close 
in  on  the  raft  again. 

"It's  only  agonizin'  him,"  says  Lefty.  "Turn 
him  loose  and  let  him  go  down  a  free  hoss,"  and 
he  lays  down  on  the  raft  and  pets  him  and  kisses 
his  muzzle,  and  by  and  by:  "Good-bye,  old 
Gen'ral!"  he  says  and  lets  the  head  rope  slip 
away. 

And  so  his  bay  pet  went.  And  on  the  sea  all 
around  were  other  good  horses  going  too. 

Lefty  is  sitting  there,  not  feeling  much  like 
talking,  but  I  touch  his  arm  and  say: 

"Lefty,  I  ain't  ever  seen  so  many  hosses,  but 
I've  seen  a  lot  o'  humans  pass  out.  In  the  navy 
the  band  plays  dead  marches  goin'  to  a  funeral 
but  it's  always  a  quickstep  comin'  back,  which  is 
good  dope  too.  What's  the  good  o'  stretchin* 
out  the  gloom  when  it  won't  do  any  good  ?  Why 
not  tear  off  a  little  somethin'  cheerful  on  your 
cornet?" 

"I  don't  feel  like  anythin*  cheerful  now,"  says 
Lefty. 

"All  right.  They  play  somethin'  mournful 
'n'  fittin'  to  your  feelin's." 

So  he  fixes  his  old  cornet  to  his  lips,  and  he 
begins — low  like  at  first,  and  then  swelling  out 
more.  It's  Taps  he's  sounding,  and  when  Taps 
is  sounded  right — low  first,  and  then  full  and  more 

118 


Good-bye  the  Horse-Boat 

full,  and  low  and  sweet  again — it's  like  a  prayer 
over  a  grave,  I  say. 

But  from  out  of  the  night  when  it's  done  comes 
a  voice:  "You  silly  old  hobo,  and  your  damn 
cemetery  air  !  Shut  up,  will  you  ? " 

And  Lefty,  who  is  all  set  for  another  tune,  he 
lays  down  his  cornet,  and  he  sighs  and  says: 

"  Bill,  it's  been  all  my  life  that  way.  I  might  a 
been  a  musician  to-day,  earnin'a  good  livin' 
in  a  theatre  orchestra,  or  a  military  band  some- 
wheres,  'stead  of  a  nold  bum  on  a  North  Atlantic 
hoss-boat,  but  it's  been  knock,  knock,  all  the  time 
—always  knocking  from  guys  who  could  just  as 
easy  been  boostin'  me." 

And  I  reaches  over  to  him  and  says:  "Lefty, 
I'm  not  setting  up  to  be  any  judge  o'  music,  but 
what  you  just  played  sounded  like  it  was  a  master 
playin'  to  me.  And  as  for  that  grave-robber!" 
raising  my  voice  so  what  I  was  sayin'  won't  be 
wasted:  "Whoever  it  was  hollered  out  to  you  that 
time  can  go  to  school  to  you  for  a  good  heart  'n' 
good  manners." 

I  knowed  who  it  was  yelled  at  Lefty — it  was 
Clews.  I  could  see  the  shadow  of  the  boat  his 
voice  come  from  drifting  nearer  to  us  in  the  dark. 
I  tell  Lefty  I  got  a  little  matter  of  business  to 
settle  with  Mr.  Clews,  and  does  he  want  to  come 
with  me?  But  he's  not  strong  for  swimming 

119 


Hiker  Joy 

around  the  ocean  looking  for  a  boat  he  can  hardly 
see  in  the  night.  Besides,  in  his  last  torpedoed 
ship  he'd  seen  two  boats  capsize.  Rafts  wasn't 
maybe  so  comfortable  but  they  didn't  capsize. 

I  make  sure  my  knife  is  tucked  tight  in  my  belt 
and  then  slip  off  the  raft  and  overboard.  I 
keep  lifting  my  head  out  of  the  water  every  once  in 
a  while  to  make  sure  I'm  not  losing  the  boat. 

When  I  get  alongside  the  boat,  there's  a  head 
and  shoulders  sticking  over  the  gunnel  astern. 
There's  another  head  sticking  up  above  the  gun- 
nel near  the  bow.  I  size  up  the  shapes  of  'em. 
It's  Mr.  Rush  near  the  bow,  and  I  climb  in  that 
end,  trying  not  to  make  any  noise. 

But  Clews  hears  me.  "Who's  that?"  he  calls 
out. 

"Me— Bill  Green." 

"Where'd  you  come  from?" 

"From  a  raft." 

"Why  didn't  you  stay  on  your  raft  1" 

"I  didn't  feel  like  it." 

Then  Mr.  Rush  who's  half  asleep  says:  "What's 
the  trouble?" 

Clews  don't  answer;  nor  me,  except  to  ask  Mr. 
Rush  if  he  has  a  handkerchief,  telling  him  I  got 
a  nose  bleed.  He  passes  me  one,  and  I  sit  two 
seats  away  from  him,  making  believe  to  be  dry- 
ing my  nose  but  drying  my  hands  and  the  handle 
and  blade  of  my  knife  instead. 

1 20 


Good-bye  the  Horse-Boat 

It  was  a  night  without  stars — dark.  By  and 
by  the  wind  begins  to  make  and  the  boat  to  pitch, 
and  soon  comes  thunder  and  lightning.  I  can 
hear  Mr.  Rush  saying  things  to  himself;  and  I 
ask  him  is  anything  wrong,  and  he  says  he's 
worrying  about  his  niece. 

"It's  foolish  worryin'  about  your  niece,"  I  says. 
"Mr.  Nugent  '11  look  out  for  her." 

"Who  is  Mr.  Nugent?"  he  asks. 

"One  o'  the  crew  and  a  fightin'  American,"  I 
says. 

"Nugent?  What  you  saying  about  Nugent?" 
calls  out  Clews  from  his  end  of  the  boat;  but 
before  I  can  think  up  an  answer  a  zigzag  stroke 
of  lightning  comes  cutting  down  the  sky  from  the 
clouds. 

I  can  feel  Mr.  Rush  shrink  up.  "Yuh  don't 
like  lightning?"  I  says. 

"Not  out  here.  And  I  don't  like  the  pitching 
up  and  down  of  the  boat." 

"No  harm  in  her  pitchin',"  I  says.  "She's 
forty  foot  long,  with  an  air  chamber  to  each  end, 
and  will  take  a  lot  o'  pitchin'  before  she'll  cap- 


size." 


"But  a  thousand  feet  of  water  under  us!" 
"A  thousand  feet  ain't  no  deeper  than  ten  to 
drown  in,"  I  says.    "Sit  in  the  bottom  o'  the  boat 
and  you'll  not  so  easy  pitch  overboard." 

121 


Hiker  Joy 

He  sits  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  me  alongside 
with  one  eye  on  the  shadow  of  Clews  in  the  stern. 

The  wind  comes  sweeping  down  on  us;  nothing 
bad,  but  Mr.  Rush  thinks  it  is. 

"I  was  brought  up  on  a  farm,"  he  says. 

"Don't  the  wind  ever  blow  on  a  farm  ?"  I  ask. 

"O,  yes.  I  have  heard  it  often  shriek  just  so, 
especially  through  the  bare  winter  trees  over  the 
frozen  snow  in  winter.  But  there  a  man  could 
take  cover,  while  here  on  this  wide  deep  ocean 
which  never  seems  to  be  still — !  Hear  it  now?" 
he  says.  "Hear  that  hissing  sound,  as  if  it  had  a 
million  tongues,  rushing  down  the  sides  of  those 
high  hills  of  water  ?" 

"He  talks  like  he's  seeing  snakes,"  I  think, 
but:  "They're  maybe  not  so  high  if  we  could  see 
'em  plainer,"  is  what  I  say. 

"They  are  too  high  for  me.  And  the  lightning 
-look!" 

I  look,  but  not  at  any  lightning.  I  look  to  see 
what  Clews  was  doing  by  the  light  of  it;  and  he 
was  looking  our  way,  and  I  didn't  like  that. 

More  thunder  comes  rolling  down  on  us  and 
more  lightning.  And  then  more  thunder. 

"It  must  be  like  that  on  the  front,  don't  you 
think?"  says  Mr.  Rush.  "The  flashing  of  the 
guns  and  the  long  rolling  crashes,  one  following 
another — like  heavy  artillery." 

122 


Good-bye  the  Horse-Boat 

"I  ain't  been  to  the  front!"  I  says. 

"Nor  I,  but  can't  you  imagine  it?"  he  says. 

"A  great  thing,  a  ninventor's  mind,"  I  thinks — 
"to  be  scared  to  death  of  a  thing,  but  taking 
notes  of  it  the  same  time." 

More  lightning  and  thunder  come  rolling  along. 
And  with  every  roll  of  it  I'm  hoping  nothing's 
happening  to  Lefty  Hall  on  the  raft,  and  with 
every  flash  I  have  a  peek  toward  Clews;  and 
every  time  I  do  he's  having  a  peek  my  way,  which 
sets  me  saying  to  myself: 

"Clews  '11  prob'ly  kill  Mr.  Rush  and  after  kill- 
ing him  or  maybe  before,  he'll  kill  me — if  I  let 
him." 

"Are  you  asleep,  Mr.  Rush?"  calls  out  Clews 
by  and  by. 

"No"—  says  Mr.  Rush— "not  yet." 

"It's  comin'  soon,"  I  say  to  myself.  "Clews  or 
me  it'll  have  to  be  before  mornin'.  But  will  I 
start  it  or  let  him  ?  He's  got  a  nautomatic  an' 
me  ony  a  knife,  an'  he's  younger  'n'  huskier  than 


me." 


I  think  it  over,  and  bimeby  I  says:  "O  well, 
I've  seen  a  lot  of  'em  go  into  a  ring  with  the  odds 
on  'em  an'  the  decision  not  goin'  with  the  odds." 

"Go  to  sleep  if  you  can,  sir,"  I  says  to  Mr. 
Rush,  and  after  a  while  he  stretches  himself  in 
the  bottom  of  the  boat  and  soon  is  asleep;  and 

123 


Hiker  Joy 

no  sooner  he  is  than  Clews  starts  for  the  bow  end 
of  the  boat,  and  by  the  noise  he  makes  coming  he 
might  as  well  be  saying:  "Mister  Man,  you're 
done!" 

"Maybe  I'm  done  at  that,"  I  thinks,  and  let 
myself  down  into  the  sea  but  hanging  onto  the 
gunnel  with  my  knife  stuck  through  my  cap  to 
keep  the  handle  of  it  dry,  and  while  he  goes  for- 
ward I'm  going  aft,  him  inside  and  me  outside 
the  boat.  By  the  time  I'm  back  over  the  gunnel 
and  into  the  boat  astern,  I  hear  him  calling  from 
forward:  "Green — Green!  Where  are  you, 
Green?" 

It's  too  dark  for  me  to  see  him  that  far  but  I 
can  imagine  him,  standing  over  where  Mr.  Rush 
is  asleep,  with  a  pistol,  looking  into  the  bow  of  the 
boat  for  me;  and  I  start  for  him,  stepping  from 
one  seat  to  the  next  on  my  toes.  I  come  to  the 
shadow  of  him  just  ahead  of  me,  his  head  bent 
over  looking  for  me. 

"Come  out  o'  there!  Come  out  from  under 
those  oars  !  Y'  hear  me  ?"  he  says. 

"I  hear  yuh,"  I  say  to  myself,  "  V  I'm  comin', 
but  not  from  under  any  oars,"  and  I  lean  over  and 
put  down  my  left  hand  so's  to  be  sure  I  got  his 
neck  located  right.  I  feel  him  stiffen  under  the 
touch  of  my  fingers,  but  he's  too  late.  The  han- 
dle of  my  knife  is  bone  dry  and  I  got  a  good  grip 

124 


Good-bye  the  Horse-Boat 

on  it  and  chock  to  the  handle  I  drive  it.  And  no 
man  can  take  the  length  of  a  good  wide  six-inch 
blade  where  his  neck  and  spine  join  and  be  much 
good  after  it.  I  catch  him  and  ease  him  onto  the 
gunnel  while  he's  falling  sideways.  He's  so  near 
overboard  that  I  see  another  little  shove  will  send 
him  all  the  way.  I  give  him  the  shove,  and  all 
the  noise  to  the  whole  thing  was  the  little  splash 
he  made  as  he  flopped  into  the  water. 

I  feel  around  till  I  find  where  he  dropped  his 
pistol  and  stick  that  and  my  knife  into  my  bosom, 
and  go  back  to  the  stern  of  the  boat  and  sit  there 
meditating.  The  thunder  and  lightning  're  gone. 
The  wind  and  sea  are  moderating,  making  it  a 
good  night  to  meditate.  "Here,"  I  thinks,  "is 
the  second  man  I've  done  for  since  leavin'  New 
York,  and  does  it  worry  me  ?  It  does  not.  Why  ? 
My  orders.  It's  a  tough  game,  war — that's  all  I 
can  make  of  it." 

So  I  sit  there  thinking  of  a  lot  of  things — of 
what's  happened  Hiker,  if  the  trolleys  are  run- 
ning the  same  as  ever  on  Broadway,  and  if  the 
barkeep  in  the  Riverview  is  still  getting  sixty 
cents  a  throw  for  his  bum  brandy;  and  I'm  still 
sitting  there  when  the  first  of  dawn  comes  creep- 
ing along.  I  look  around  and  there's  a  raft  near 
me,  and  a  man  lying  flat  out  on  the  raft.  I  take  an 
oar  and  scull  the  lifeboat  over  to  it. 

125 


Hiker  Joy 

It's  Lefty  Hall  on  the  raft,  and  he  rolls  over  and 
lifts  himself  up  like  he's  got  a  great  stiffness  all 
over  when  I  hail  him — not  too  loud. 

"A  busy  night,  Bill,"  he  says,  "hangin'  onto 
a  coupla  ringbolts  so's  notta  be  washed  overboard, 
and  in  the  middle  of  it  overboard  goes  my  cor- 
net. Eighteen  years  I've  had  her  and  now  to  lose 
her!" 

He  climbs  into  the  life-boat,  sees  Mr.  Rush 
asleep,  looks  around,  and:  "Where's  Clews?"  he 
whispers. 

"Clews  never  was  here,"  I  whispers  back. 

"Huh!" 

"No.  It  was  you  here  in  this  life-boat,  not  on 
that  raft,  all  last  night." 

"Huh,"  he  says,  and  spying  some  red  spots  on  a 
seat,  bends  over  and  smells.  "Blood!"  he  says, 
getting  excited  and  waking  up  Mr.  Rush,  wrho 
looks  around,  and  says :  "  Blood  ?  Where's  the 
blood?" 

And  he  has  to  bend  over  and  have  a  look  too, 
and  by  and  by  to  put  a  finger  to  a  red  spot  and 
taste  it.  He  looks  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat 
and  finds  some  bigger  spots. 

"How  came  all  this  blood  here  ?"  he  says. 

"Remember  my  nose-bleed?"  I  says.  "That 
time  I  borrowed  your  handkerchief?" 

"Oh,  yes  !    But  where  is  my  handkerchief?" 
126 


Good-bye  the  Horse- Boat 

"I  hove  it  overboard.  I  didn't  s'pose  you'd 
want  it  again." 

"I  don't.  I  merely  like  to  know  the  reason  for 
things." 

He  looks  at  Lefty  and  says:  "Last  night  you 
appeared  to  be  a  taller,  stouter,  younger  man." 

Lefty  looks  at  me. 

"Thex  perils  of  a  night  like  last  night  would 
shrink  and  age  any  man,"  I  says;  and  to  myself: 
"If  I  don't  give  this  inquiring  geezer  something 
to  think  about  he'll  have  me  bustin'  my  head  in- 
ventin'  alibis."  And  then  out  loud  again:  "But 
don't  you  think  we'd  better  be  doin'  something 
'stead  o'  talkin'  ? "  I  says. 

"What  can  we  do — where  are  we  ?"  he  says. 

"I  dunno  where  we  are,"  I  says,  "but  there's 
the  sun,  an'  war  or  no  war,  he's  prob'ly  still  risin' 
in  the  yeast.  What'd  y'  say  if  we  sail  toward 
where  I  think  England  or  Scotland  is?"  And 
he  says  all  right,  and  me  'n'  Lefty  make  ready  to 
rig  up  a  sail,  and  the  first  chance  I  get  while 
we're  riggin'  the  sail  up  I  slip  my  knife  and  Clews' 
pistol  out  of  my  bosom  and  into  the  sea,  not  know- 
ing who'd  pick  us  up  and  have  a  lot  more  questions 
for  me  to  answer. 

There's  a  haze  all  around  us,  but  it's  thinning 
out  to  the  east'ard,  and  by  and  by  the  sun  busts 
up  out  of  the  sea,  and  when  it  does  there's  a 

127 


Hiker  Joy 

bunch  of  ships  steaming  along,  war-gray  some  and 
all  camouflaged  others.  One  is  all  solid  white, 
and  when  she  went  by  I  was  wishing  I  was  a 
painting  guy  to  make  a  picture  of  her — a  solid 
silver  ship  riding  across  a  great  golden  sun  in  the 
haze  of  a  summer's  morning. 

Some  destroyers  are  escorting  the  ships,  and 
we  wait  for  them  to  hustle  right  down  to  us.  To 
make  sure  they  would  see  us  we  stand  up  on  the 
seats  and  wave  our  caps  at  them,  and  when  we 
do — Bing !  A  shell  comes  screaming  and  bust- 
ing and  floats  like  it's  a  bunch  of  cotton  balls  a 
couple  of  hundred  yards  away.  And  Bing ! 
comes  another. 

"What  do  they  mean?"  asks  Mr.  Rush. 

"They  prob'ly  think  we're  a  U-boat,"  says 
Lefty.  "The  English  say  they  have  a  trick  of 
riggin'  up  a  sail  to  pass  for  a  life-boat." 

The  destroyers  are  maybe  three  miles  away. 
They  fire  a  few  more  shells.  None  of  'em  hit  us. 
By  and  by  one  of  'em  stands  down  and  steams 
circles  around  us  with  one  guy  peeking  at  us  with 
glasses  from  the  bridge,  and  another  pointing  at 
us  with  a  megaphone: 

"We  didn't  scare  you  with  those  shells,  I  hope  ?" 
says  the  guy  with  the  megaphone. 

"O,  no,  we  were  delighted !"  I  says. 

"Sorry,  old  chaps,  but  we  can't  take  any 
128 


Good-bye  the  Horse-Boat 

chances  in  this  lumpy  sea.  Perfect  weather  for 
U-boats  to  work  in  yj  know.  Hold  your  present 
course  and  before  the  hour  is  out  you  will  find 
yourself  with  a  fleet  of  our  mine  sweepers." 

He  waves  his  hand  and  steams  off.     We  sail  on. 

Little  whitecaps  of  waves  were  rolling  to  all 
sides  of  us,  but  by  and  by  they  flatten  out  till 
everywhere  the  sea  is  all  smooth  again.  Fine,  we 
think,  till  along  comes  a  lot  of  vapor.  Vapor  'n' 
fog,  all  fog  'n'  vapor  it  is,  and  there  we  are  with 
no  compass,  not  knowing  were  we  sailing  east  or 
west  or  what  way.  And  if  a  man  wants  to  feel 
lonesome,  let  him  try  to  sail  a  small  boat  through 
shifting  winds  and  a  thick  fog  in  strange  waters. 

We're  maybe  sailing  for  two  hours,  me  still  in 
the  stern  steering  her,  when  from  out  o'  the  fog 
conies  a  voice,  a  man's  voice  singing: 

"Draw  near,  my  happy  shipmates  all, 
An5  listen  unto  me. 
Put  match  to  pipe  an*  stow  your  gear 
The  whiles  I  tell  to  ye: 
'Twas  in  the  month  of  August 
And  the  year  was  sixty-three, 
The  ship,  she  was  the  Iron  Duke — 
She  sailed  the  cold  North  Sea. 

And  it's  a  too-roo-roo  an*  a  too-roo-ray, 
O  shipmates  all,  'twas  a  doleful  day ! 

The  Captain  had  his  wife  aboard, 
Likewise  deep  villains  three — 

129 


Hiker  Joy 

A  passenger  named  William  Bell 
And  a  mate  named  Henry  Lee. 
This  Bell  he  loved  the  Captain's  wife 
And  chests  of  gold  had  he — 
The  mate  he  loved  the  yellow  gold 
And  a  willin'  ear  lent  he. 

And  it's  too-roo-roo  and  a  too-roo-ree, 
You  see  before  you  Hennery  Lee ! " 

Lefty  is  in  the  bow  of  the  boat  'most  asleep,  and 
Mr.  Rush  'most  ready  to  pass  away,  is  in  the 
waist,  but  the  singing  voice  brings  'em  wide 
awake. 

Lefty's  all  set  for  hailing,  when  Mr.  Rush 
comes  to  life.  "Sh-h" — he  says — "sh-h!  not 
a  word.  The  officers  of  the  Bucephalus  informed 
me  that  it  is  a  common  practice  for  U-boats  to 
imitate  English  sailors,  the  better  to  lure  them 
into  their  clutches." 

The  singing  voice  starts  up  again: 

"The  night  was  dark,  the  wind  was  fair, 
The  ship  was  sailin'  free. 
The  Captain  leaned  far  o'er  the  rail, 
He  feared  no  villainee. 
A  cry,  a  splash,  and  then  no  more — 
The  ship  sailed  fast  and  free. 
And  never  a  soul  till  this  mo-ment 
To  hear  of  it  from  me. 

And  it's  too-roo-roo  and  a  too-roo-ray. 
Take  heed,  shipmates,  of  a  Judgment  Day." 

130 


Good-bye  the  Horse-Boat 

"That's  no  German  voice,"  I  says,  and  let  a 
hail  out  of  me. 

There's  no  answer. 

I  hail  once  more.  "Hi,  you  too-roo-roo  man  !" 
I  yell. 

There's  no  answer,  but  the  first  thing  we  know 
we  almost  bump  into  a  stout-built,  wide-sterned, 
yawl-rigged  hull  with  red-brown  sails  in  the  fog. 

Three  men  and  a  couple  of  young  fellows  are 
standing  by  the  rail.  "We've  been  torpedoed," 
I  says. 

"Oh,  aye,  torpedoed,"  says  one  of  the  men. 
And  the  two  other  men  together  say,  "Oh,  aye, 
torpedoed !" 

"Come  aboord — come  aboord,"  says  the  first 
man  then;  and  we  go  aboard;  Mr.  Rush  setting 
down  his  bag  and  saying:  "Thank  the  Lord 
that's  safe."  And  Lefty  saying:  "Thank  the 
Lord,  we're  safe." 


The  Flying  Sailor 

THIS  yaviator  who  picked  me  up  is  an 
American  navy  ensign  named  Brown. 
(This  is  me,  Hiker,  writing  again.)  He's  from 
some  yaviation  camp,  and  his  flying  chum  not 
feeling  well  he'd  come  out  for  a  little  scouting 
trip  alone,  all  of  which  when  I  come  awake  and 
he's  got  his  engine  fixed  he  tells  me,  slipping  me 
a  cigarette  and  pointing  out  a  lot  o'  things  in  the 
machine  the  same  time. 

"Not  the  latest  model,"  he  says,  "but  a  pretty 
good  old  boat." 

I  have  a  peek  at  the  machine  gun.  "It  must 
be  great  stuff  turnin'  that  loose  on  a  nenemy," 
I  says. 

"Try  it,"  he  says,  and  I  slam  out  a  few  at  a 
cigarette  box  he  scales  out  on  the  water. 

"You  got  a  good  eye  for  a  kid,"  he  says.  "But 
come  now — where'd  you  come  from  and  what's 
your  business  ?" 

"I  come  off  a  deep-water  craft  that's  now  on 
bottom." 

"Torpedoed?" 

"I  dunno  what  went  wrong,"  I  says,  "but  I 
got  a  message  for  somebody.  I  know  you're  all 

132 


The  Flying  Sailor 

right,  but  it's  a  nimportant  message  and  maybe 
ought  a  go  to  some  gen'ral  or  admiral,  if  you 
know  of  any  loafin'  around  anywheres." 

"I  don't  know  whether  we  got  any  admirals 
on  tap  at  our  station  now,"  he  says.  "But  I'll 
take  you  there  and  you  can  tell  it  to  them." 

It  was  a  sorta  calm  night;  but  a  little  breeze, 
first  in  puffs  and  then  steady,  comes  rippling 
along,  making  the  water  look  pretty  as  anything 
in  the  moonlight.  Brown  takes  off  his  yaviation 
cap  to  feel  the  air  better,  and  no  sooner  he  does 
than  he  begins  pointing  one  ear  into  the  wind, 
saying: 

"You  hear  anything  ?" 

Like  a  nauto  engine  noise  it  was  and  I'd  been 
hearing  it  for  a  coupla  minutes,  but  not  knowing 
a  noise  like  that  wasn't  a  reg'lar  thing  around 
there,  and  not  being  too  sure  it  ain't  from  the  U- 
212,  I  didn't  say  anything  about  it. 

"Probably  one  of  our  own  planes.  O,  but  if 
it  was  a  Zep !"  says  Brown. 

"Tough  birds,  those  Zeps,  ain't  they?"  I  says. 

"They  must  be,  they  got  so  many  people  over 
here  bluffed,  but  I'd  like  to  have  a  go  at  one." 

He  tells  me  some  more  about  the  Zeps,  warming 
up  his  engines  while  he's  talking,  and  talking  some 
more  after  he'd  got  her  started  till  the  spray  fly- 
ing over  us  won't  let  us  hear  each  other  talk  any 

133 


Hiker  Joy 

more  unless  we  stick  our  mouths  to  each  other's 
ears  and  yell. 

We're  bouncing  ahead  in  long  jumps  and  com- 
ing down  splash  !  after  every  jump  atop  of  a  little 
wave  or  maybe  two  or  three  of  them,  and  when 
we  do  the  spray  comes  shooting  over  Brown  and 
into  my  eyes  and  nose  and  mouth,  'specially  my 
eyes,  where  I  got  no  goggles  and  he  has.  He's 
in  the  bow  steering  and  I'm  a  little  place  with 
the  machine-gun  pit  right  behind  him,  and  he 
turns  around  to  yell : 

"We  call  this  porpoising!" 

"That's  good  !"  I  yell  back,  though  knowin' 
what  it  is  ain't  making  me  feel  any  more  dry. 

The  next  thing  I  notice  there's  no  more  spray 
flying  over  me  and  I  look  down  over  the  yedge 
of  the  boat,  and  'stead  of  the  little  waves  under 
us  flying  along  in  rows,  they're  now  all  still,  like 
they're  glued  tight  to  some  board. 

"We're  in  the  yair!"  I  yells  out,  and  Brown 
looks  over  the  yedge  and  yells  back:  "We're 
about  500  feet  up !" 

"How  much  higher  we  goin'  ?"  I  yells. 

"Don't  know — maybe  15,000  feet." 

Jeezooks — 15,000  feet!  I  look  around  for 
something  to  lash  myself  in  with,  and  when  I  do 
Brown  points  to  a  coupla  straps,  and  I  slip  'em 
over  my  shoulders  the  same  as  he's  got  his. 

134 


The  Flying  Sailor 

He's  peeking  ahead  all  the  time.  "There  she 
is !"  he  yells  and  points,  and  where  he  points  I  see 
a  speck  shaped  like  a  cigar  floating  up  in  the  high 
moonlight. 

"S'pose  she's  a  Zep,  what  do  I  do?"  I  yell 
back  at  him  next,  and  he  tells  me  what  I  gotta 
do  and  how,  talking  in  jumps  like  we  have  to 
with  the  wind  whistling  about  eighty  miles  an 
hour  past  our  ears. 

I'm  scared,  but  whatever's  going  to  happen 
ain't  with  us  yet,  so  I  close  my  eyes  and  lean 
back,  and  it's  like  floating  along  on  a  nair  mat- 
tress in  the  moonlight.  Bimeby  I  look  over  the 
yedge  to  see  will  I  be  dizzy  the  same  as  maybe 
looking  over  the  yedge  of  a  high  building;  and 
when  I  do  I  spy  a  ship  and  she's  looking  like  a 
little  play  boat  stuck  into  a  nocean  that  was  like 
a  sheet  of  glassy  ice  'stead  of  what  I  knew  it  was 
—a  lot  of  little  waves  hopping  along  in  the  moon- 
light; and  looking  at  her  I  says  to  myself:  "If  a 
ship  four  or  five  hundred  foot  long  don't  look  any 
bigger  than  a  hummin'  bird  to  us  up  here,  then 
we  can't  be  lookin'  any  bigger  than  a  Jersey 
skeeter  to  that  Zep  up  there — that's  if  she  c'n 
see  us  a  tall/'  which  I'm  hoping  she  can't. 

The  next  thing  is  the  yairship  speck  climbing 
higher.  And  we  go  climbing  after  her,  trying  to 
ketch  up,  but  not  ketching  up  much  that  way. 

135 


Hiker  Joy 

We  can  scoot  along  faster,  but  yairships  are 
great  climbers  and  flying  boats  ain't,  Brown'd 
told  me.  Then  I  notice  her  getting  bigger,  mean- 
ing we're  getting  closer  to  her,  but  she's  still  a 
lot  higher  than  us.  And  she's  going  higher  all 
the  time. 

Bimeby  I  see  a  dark  streak  like  on  the  water 
ahead,  and  a  coupla  winking  lights  above  the 
streak.  "The  English  coast,"  says  Brown,  "and 
if  she  goes  on  going  past  that  streak  it  means  she's 
a  Zep,  and  bound  inland." 

She  keeps  on  going.  "A  Zep  all  right !"  Brown 
yells  like  he's  tickled. 

We're  miles  behind  her,  and  we  stay  miles  be- 
hind her,  because  Brown  is  meaning  to  get  above 
her  and  come  down  on  her  from  behind. 

The  Zep  keeps  on  going  up.  "If  she  don't  stop 
she'll  soon  be  grabbin'  the  handle  of  the  Dipper 
and  havin'  a  drink,"  is  what  I'm  thinking  while 
I'm  watching  her. 

The  Zep  goes  through  some  clouds  and  we  go 
through  after  her;  and  when  we  do,  there  we  are— 
the  clouds  below  us,  and  above  us  the  moon 
and  a  few  stars  stuck  in  here  and  there  in  the 
sky. 

I  thought  clouds  would  be  thicker,  but  they're 
like  a  fog,  and  when  we  come  outa  them  I  spot  a 
narrer  strip  of  something  on  the  ground,  and  it's 

136 


The  Flying  Sailor 

winding  and  winding  away  like  a  long  white 
shiny  thing  ahead  of  us  till  we  can't  see  it  any 
more.  I  poke  Brown  to  show  him  and  he  nods 
to  say  he's  seen  it  and  it's  a  river. 

We're  pretty  high  by  then  and  I'm  feeling  kinda 
chilly. 

The  river  keeps  winding  and  we  keep  follering 
it  on  till  we  see  what  looks  like  long  alleys  of 
lights  crossing  each  other  in  the  sky.  Search- 
lights Brown  tells  rr»e  they  are. 

Bimeby  I  see  a  black  mark  like,  stretching 
across  the  silver  ribbon.  A  bridge  across  the 
river,  Brown  yells  it  is,  and  to  get  ready  to  hear 
the  barrage  guns  soon. 

I  see  them  before  I  hear  them — more  yellow 
splashes  of  light  than  I  can  count  coming  up  outa 
the  yearth  near  the  bridge,  and  up  in  the  yair 
is  about  a  thousand  lights  busting  out  like  yel- 
low-white stars  just  under  where  the  Zep  is  fly- 
ing. Which  don't  make  me  feel  any  too  easy, 
cause  where  the  Zep  goes  we  have  to  go,  and  how 
will  they  know  down  on  the  ground  who  we  are 
coming  after  her? 

The  Zep  makes  a  turn  and  goes  across  the 
river.  More  barrage  guns  bust  out  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river,  but  when  they  do  there's  a 
splash  of  light  down  below  that's  big  as  Union 
Square — bigger.  And  there's  another.  And  an- 

137 


Hiker  Joy 

other.  And  about  the  time  of  the  fourth  big 
splash  I  hear  a  big  Bo-o-o-m ! 

"The  Zep  is  bombing!"  yells  Brown.  "We'll 
get  to  her  yet !" 

There's  a  few  more  big  lumps  of  light  and 
Bo-o-ms !  from  where  the  Zep  bombs  are  land- 
ing, and  about  another  million  little  twinkles  of 
lights  from  the  barrage  guns  below,  and  across 
the  shining  river  we  go  too.  There's  more  splashes 
from  below  and  more  shrapnel  stars  busting  un- 
der us — some  of  them  pretty  close,  but  not  close 
enough,  we're  going  by  so  fast;  and  then  the 
guns  and  shrapnel  lay  off;  and  it's  all  quiet  and 
dark  again  below. 

The  wind  is  whistling  through  our  struts  and 
our  stays,  and  about  all  I'm  hearing  is  that 
whistle  of  the  wind,  and  about  all  I'm  seeing  is 
the  gas  bag  of  the  Zep,  till  something  tells  me 
there's  something  going  on  that  I  youghta  know 
about.  I  have  a  peek  around,  and  when  I  do,  from 
what  Brown  had  told  was  the  gondola  under  the 
Zep's  gas  bag  I  see  a  lot  of  little  spots  of  light 
coming,  and  coming  so  fast  out  of  her  they're 
like  a  string  of  lights.  Before  I  can  think  what 
they  mean  I  feel  the  boat  swinging  away,  and  the 
next  thing  I  don't  see  any  gondola,  meaning 
Brown's  swung  her  out  of  range,  and  Brown  is 
talking  fast  over  his  shoulder.  I  don't  hear  half 

138 


The  Flying  Sailor 

what  he  says,  but  if  I  didn't  hear  a  word  there's 
only  one  thing  he  can  mean;  so  I  say  a  quick 
little  prayer  and  stand  ready  to  shoot.  The  boat 
goes  zooming  up,  but  soon  again  I  notice  her 
nose  is  pointing  toward  the  yearth  again;  and 
then  we  go  shooting  down  toward  the  Zep. 

"Pretty  soon  now,"  I  says  to  myself,  and  as  I 
do  I  see  on  top  of  the  gas  bag  below  me  a  shadow 
of  a  bird,  like,  but  forty  times  bigger  than  the 
biggest  bird  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  It's  got  two 
wings  as  wide  as  the  whole  gas  bag  and  they're 
dancing  from  one  side  to  the  other  of  the  top  of 
the  gas  bag.  "What's  that  thing?"  I  think,  and 
then  I  remember  the  moon  is  behind  us  and  the 
big  bird  is  the  shadow  of  us  on  the  bag. 

The  shadow  slides  off,  meaning  we're  moving 
to  the  other  side  of  the  Zep,  and  soon  from  under 
the  bag  I  can  see  the  string  of  little  lights  coming 
again,  and  there's  sounds  like  a  lot  of  husky 
skeeters  or  something  flying  past  my  ears. 

"Be  sure  you're  on  your  target  before  you  fire," 
Brown  had  said.  "No  use  unloading  a  tray  of 
bullets  without  hitting  anything  and  not  getting 
time  perhaps  to  load  her  up  again!" 

I'm  not  too  sure  I'm  on  the  target  when  I  get 
ready  to  point  the  gun.  But  those  pings  going 
past  my  ear  are  hurrying  me  up,  but  before  I  can 
shoot  the  Zep  makes  a  quick  turn.  Brown  turns 

139 


Hiker  Joy 

with  her — sharp !  and  when  he  does  our  boat 
lies  down  'most  on  her  side  and  our  wings  point 
'most  straight  up  and  down.  Fm  looking,  when 
I  look — which  I  don't  do  too  long — straight  down 
to  the  yearth.  I'm  glad  I'm  strapped  in. 

I  have  a  peek  at  Brown,  who  is  having  a  squint 
at  one  of  his  gauges  with  a  little  flashlight.  He 
shakes  his  head  and  then  he  yells: 

"We  maybe  got  enough  at  that!" 

"Enough  what?"  I  yells. 

"Enough  gas  to  make  the  sea!" 

"Jeezooks  !  meanin'  we  can't  land  on  land  ? " 

"Not  alive.  This  is  a  hydro.  I  hope  to  the 
Lord  the  gas'll  hold  out!" 

"I'm  double  hopin',"  I  yell  back. 

"Stand  by  to  shoot !"  says  Brown,  and  I  move 
the  gun  all  around  to  make  sure  she  ain't  rusty  in 
her  hinges.  Up  and  down  and  all  around — every 
way  except  dead  ahead  I  can  swing  it,  which  is 
maybe  lucky  for  Brown,  who's  dead  ahead. 

All  this  time  Brown's  been  holding  off  till  he's 
ready  to  make  a  sure  dive  at  her.  The  Zep  is 
shooting  up  again,  and  zooming,  zooming  we  go 
after  her,  the  river  all  this  time  winding  handy 
below  us,  meaning  the  Zep  is  going  back  the  way 
she  came. 

Brown  goes  as  high  as  he  has  to  and  then  be- 
gins to  drop  down,  and  soon  we're  hanidy  to  her 

140 


The  Flying  Sailor 

gondola  again,  meaning  we  got  to  be  ready  to 
dodge  a  few  more  bullets.  If  the  bullets  don't 
hit  me  or  Brown,  they  still  got  a  chance  to  get  to 
our  gas  tank,  meaning  a  straight  three-mile  drop 
to  the  yearth  with  no  floors  to  stop  at  on  the 
way,  which  Brown  got  me  all  set  for  before  this 
by  saying  not  to  worry  about  that.  "No  suffering 
to  it,"  says  Brown.  "We'd  be  dead  before  we 
ever  hit  the  ground." 

"It  oughta  cheer  a  fuhla  up  on  the  way  down," 
I  think.  "But  I  wouldn't  mind  sufferin'  a  little 
and  stoppin'  short  o'  the  ground." 

We're  getting  the  handiest  we  been  yet  to  the 
Zep,  and  Brown  gives  me  a  sign  that  means  this 
time  we're  going  to  try  for  her  sure. 

"Take  your  time — but  not  too  much  time,"  he 
hollers. 

"Not  too  much  is  right,"  I  say,  thinking  of 
those  little  ping  boys  whistling  by  my  ear,  and  I 
waited  long  enough  to  point  the  gun  and  no  longer, 
and  begin  to  cut  loose  at  the  gas  bag,  wondering 
how  much  I  youghta  allow  with  the  Zep  and  us 
both  going  about  seventy  miles  an  hour. 

Twenty  bullets  I  musta  pumped  out,  and  not 
a  sign  from  the  Zep.  "You're  sure  a  punk 
shot,"  I'm  thinking;  and  maybe  another  twenty 
I  pump  out  when — O ! 

The  sky  all  around  went  red  and  with  it  comes 
141 


Hiker  Joy 

a  nexplosion  that  picks  up  our  boat  and  tosses  it 
like  we're  on  a  big  wave  at  sea.  I  hook  both  my 
arms  to  the  machine  gun  and  wait  for  that  three- 
mile  drop  to  the  yearth,  which  I  know  is  coming 
to  us  by  the  way  we're  being  bumped  around. 

A  reg'lar  airo  plane  maybe,  but  no  hydro  c'n 
do  tricks  like  this — not  and  get  away  with  it,  I'm 
thinking.  And  there's  a  hot  smell  comes  which 
something  tells  me  ain't  good  for  me,  and  I  stop 
breathing.  When  I  can't  hold  in  any  longer,  I 
grab  another  little  mouthful  of  air  and  look  up 
and  around  to  see  what's  doing. 

The  boat's  rocking  and  bouncing,  but  Brown 
is  right  there  steering  her.  We're  what  Brown'd 
told  me  was  volplaning  down  fast,  and  there's  the 
yocean  under  us.  We  musta  been  pretty  handy 
to  the  sea  before  we  started  the  shooting,  but 
being  so  busy  I  didn't  notice  it. 

The  next  thing  is  our  engine  ain't  working  and 
we're  going  down  like  shooting  the  chutes.  She'd 
shoot  a  thousand  feet  maybe,  and  then  Brown'd 
fetch  her  head  up  and  level  her  out.  About  the 
time  I'd  think  she's  going  to  fall  Brown  would 
send  her  shooting  the  chutes  again.  We  made 
eight  or  ten  shoots  and  then  splam !  we  hit  the 
water — not  so  very  hard  considering. 

I  don't  say  or  do  anything  for  a  coupla  min- 
utes, 'cept  get  my  breathing  going  reg'lar  again. 

142 


The  Flying  Sailor 

Then  I  have  a  look  around,  and  there's  the  Zep 
blazing  and  drifting  behind  us.  Bimeby  she 
flops  into  the  sea  and  the  blaze  of  her  goes  out. 

"A  tough  death  for  'em,"  I  says. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  says  Brown.  "Two 
seconds  after  her  bag  caught  fire  they  were  in 
ashes.  No  suffering  to  it — dead  before  they 
knew  what  happened." 

"Did  any  guy  who's  been  through  it  ever  come 
back  to  say  that  ?"  I  says. 

"Of  course  not,  but  they  have  no  kick  coming. 
They  did  all  the  damage  they  could  before  we 
got  'em." 

"What  d'y'think  o'  guys  doin'  that  kind  o' 
work?"  I  says. 

"Why  it's  their  orders,"  says  Brown. 

"Meanin'you'ddoit?" 

"If  I  were  ordered  ?  Why  surely.  What  else 
could  I  do  ?  If  I  didn't  like  it  I  could  take  a 
court-martial  one  day,  and  next  day  face  a  firing 
squad." 

"Then  what  do  papers  mean  when  they  lam- 
baste the  crews  of  Zeps  for  droppin'  bombs?" 

"Bunk.  Every  fellow  I  know  at  my  station  is 
hoping  to  get  a  fightin'  or  bombin'  plane,  and 
we're  not  being  drilled  to  make  sure  there's  no- 
body walking  the  streets  under  us  before  we  drop 
a  bomb.  Bunk,  kid,  and  dangerous  doctrine. 


Hiker  Joy 

It  makes  me  and  every  other  aviator  out  to  be  a 
murderer.  No  use  saying  the  enemy  soldier  or 
sailor  is  inhuman  when  he's  only  carrying  out 
orders.  He's  got  to  carry  out  his  orders.  So 
have  we.  If  they're  going  to  blame  anybody, 
let  'em  blame  the  higher  up  people  who  give  us 
our  orders.  Bunk,  kid,  or  if  it  isn't  bunk,  then 
they're  foolish.  And  whatever  you  do  in  life,  kid, 
don't  go  foolish.  But  let's  pass  on  to  first  aid 
to  wrecked  aviators,"  and  he  hauls  out  a  can  of 
beef  and  a  kinda  nickel  plated  bottle  which  has 
about  a  quart  of  hot  coffee  in  it  when  he  screws 
the  top  off;  and  while  we  drink  and  eat  the  yedge 
of  a  sun  that  looks  like  a  million-dollar  gold  piece 
is  rising  above  a  sea  that's  all  smooth  and  slate- 
colored,  making  us  feel  pretty  good. 

"And  now  for  second  aid  to  wrecked  aviators," 
says  Brown,  and  hauls  out  a  pair  of  pigeons,  and 
around  the  leg  of  each  of  them  he  ties  a  piece  of 
tissue  paper,  saying  on  it  what's  happened  us 
and  about  where  on  the  ocean  he  thinks  we  are. 

He  throws  the  pigeons  into  the  air  and  they 
fly  around  in  a  circle,  and  one  of  them  goes  off 
toward  where  the  land  oughta  be.  The  other  flies 
off  in  a  coupla  more  circles,  and  then  comes  flutter- 
ing down  and  roosts  out  on  the  end  of  one  of  the 
wings. 

"Shish-h!"  says  Brown,  and  "Shish-h!"  I 
144 


The  Flying  Sailor 

say,  but  the  pigeon  don't  shish  a  tall,  not  till  I 
crawl  out  and  shove  him  off.  This  time  he  flies 
away. 

"They  ought  to  make  camp  in  half  an  hour," 
says  Brown.  "Then  an  hour  for  a  big  hydro  to 
get  ready  and  get  back  here — call  it  two  hours  to 
be  sure." 

The  sun  comes  up  and  warms  us  so  that  we 
slip  out  of  our  Teddy  Bear  suits,  and  the  slaty 
sea  turns  to  a  blue  color  and  comes  gurgling  in 
like  a  baby  with  a  bottle,  with  a  little  white  col- 
lar to  where  the  yedges  of  it  breaks  in  around 
the  wides  of  our  pontoons,  but  loosening  up  one 
of  what  Brown  calls  a  wing  pontoon  while  it's 
gurgling  in. 

"But  that  little  pontoon  was  loose  before. 
Lucky  it  didn't  fall  off  while  we  were  up  in  the 
air,"  says  Brown. 

"Meanin'  what?"  I  ast. 

"We'd  probably  be  spread  out  over  some  of 
the  map  of  England  instead  of  sitting  here  talk- 
ing about  it." 

"It's  cert'nly  a  great  life  for  you  guys,"  I  say, 
"if  nothin'  happens  yuh,  ain't  it  ?" 

The  blue  sea  keeps  swishing  in  around  us;  and 
all  around  us,  'specially  on  the  sky,  we  keep  a 
lookout.  Brown  looks  at  his  watch  to  see  how 
the  time  is  getting  on,  but  it's  stopped.  We  guess 

H5 


Hiker  Joy 

at  how  long  two  hours  is.  Then  we  guess  at 
three  hours,  going  by  the  sun.  Then  at  four,  five, 
and  six  hours.  By  that  time  Brown  says  he 
shouldn't  wonder  if  something  happened  the 
pigeons. 

"They  were  from  a  new  lot  anyway,"  says 
Brown,  and  takes  out  his  last  cigarette.  "One  of 
the  thirty-four  makes,"  says  Brown,  "which  are 
advertising  how  they  are  winning  the  war  for  us. 
Here—  "  and  gives  me  half  the  cigarette. 

"Thanks,"  I  says.  "An'  double  thanks  for 
not  tellin'  me  Fm  too  young  to  be  smokin' 


'em." 


There's  about  eight  puffs  in  the  half  of  the  ciggy, 
but  it  helps. 

We  turn  to  watching  the  sea  again,  and  bimeby 
some  pieces  of  doors  and  things  from  a  wreck 
come  drifting  by,  and  next  a  man  standing  up  with 
a  life-belt  around  him.  He's  dead. 

The  sun  goes  down  below  a  lot  of  smoky  clouds 
and  soon  all  we  see  is  stars;  and  bimeby  the  moon. 
But  more  clouds  come  and  shut  out  the  moon  and 
stars  both,  and  it  gets  cold  and  we  get  into  our 
Teddy  Bear  suits  again. 

We  think  we  hear  a  noise,  and  put  our  ears 
down  close  to  the  water,  and  we  do.  It's  the  noise 
of  a  propeller.  Then  we  hear  voices,  and  they're 
pretty  handy,  because  they're  the  voices  of  men 


The  Flying  Sailor 

who  ain't  talking  too  loud.  Then  we  see  the  loom 
of  a  hull  and  a  ship's  smokestacks  against  the 
yair,  and  when  we  do  we  let  a  yell  out  of  us. 
She's  carrying  one  light  like  a  steaming  light  to 
where  her  masthead  would  maybe  be;  but  when  we 
yell  the  light  goes  swinging  around  and  away  she 
goes,  and  as  long  as  we  can  hear  her  propellers 
with  our  ears  close  to  the  water,  they  are  chugging 
it  out  double-time. 

"They  must've  thought  we  were  a  U-boat," 
says  Brown.  "I  hope  they  did,  because  then  they 
will  hurry  in  and  report  us  and  some  ship  will 
come  out  to  look  for  us." 

"And  if  it's  no  better  than  a  battleship  and  she 
all  set  to  blow  us  out  of  water,  I'd  sure  welcome 
her,"  I  says. 

A  little  breeze  comes  and  blows  away  the  clouds 
and  shows  us  the  moon  rolling  big  and  white  across 
the  sky.  And  the  stars  show  again — the  little 
winky  ones  and  the  big  steady  going  guys — but 
they  musta  got  cold,  for  out  they  go,  and  when 
they  do  we  feel  cold  ourselves,  and  lonesome — 
till  the  sun  comes  up  again. 

The  sun  is  no  more  than  up  when  a  nairoplane 
comes  flying  out  from  land.  She's  maybe  half 
a  mile  high  and  we're  all  set  to  give  her  three 
cheers,  but  she  goes  sailing  right  on  by. 

"What  d'y'know  about  that  loafer?"  I  says. 

H7 


Hiker  Joy 

"She  may  have  seen  us,  but  being  on  special 
duty  could  not  stop,"  says  Brown. 

"Meanin'  what  ?"  I  ast. 

"She'll  report  us,  and  then  a  patrol  boat  will 
come  out  and  get  us."  Which  sounds  good,  and 
bimeby  he  adds  on:  "I  hope  no  neutral  ship 
comes  along  in  the  meantime  and  tempts  us  to 
be  picked  up." 

I  says,  "Why?" 

"Because,"  says  Brown,  "they'd  have  to  in- 
tern us.  You  woul  Jn'r  like  to  be  confined,  would 
you,  in  some  countiy  like  Norway  or  Denmark  or 
Holland  till  the  war  is  over  ? " 

I  don't  see  where  being  adrift  in  the  middle  of 
the  North  Sea  or  wherever  it  is  we  are  has  it  on 
being  tucked  away  in  some  cosy  little  country 
with  things  to  eat  and  drink  and  maybe  somebody 
to  slip  a  fuhla  the  makin's  for  the  rest  of  the  war; 
but  I  don't  tell  him,  because  already  I'm  seeing 
that  he's  what  Bill  Green  would  call  a  noptimist, 
meaning  a  guy  who  expects  to  get  all  the  close 
decisions;  which  is  all  right,  of  course,  and  maybe 
a  fuhla  to  be  a  naviator  oughta  be  a  noptimist, 
but  it's  no  way  to  bet. 

We  wait  for  the  patrol  boat  or  the  battle  cruiser, 
or  whatever  it  is  going  to  come  along  and  pick 
us  up,  but  all  that  comes  along  is  a  fog — a  nice 
wet  fog.  The  fog  drifts  off  and  we  spot  a  steamer 

148 


The  Flying  Sailor 

coming  straight  for  us  and  we  stand  up  and  yell, 
and  when  we  do,  around  she  turns  and  goes  the 
other  way. 

"I'm  beginning  to  get  sore  on  U-boats,"  says 
Brown.  "I  know  it's  their  business,  but  they've 
put  such  a  fear  of  strange  crafts  into  people  that 
a  man  might's  well  let  himself  go  straight  to  the 
bottom  and  have  it  over  with  as  be  wrecked  around 
here." 

He  begins  to  talk  about  his  chums  at  the  sta- 
tion, wondering  what  they're  thinking  about  his 
being  so  long  away.  "They'd  be  surprised  if 
they  knew  what  the  old  boat's  been  through  since 
she  left,  wouldn't  they?  And  more  surprised 
perhaps  if  they  knew  where  I  was  right  now. 
But  not  one  of  them  at  that  who  wouldn't  be 
glad  to  swap  places  with  me  if  they  knew,  I'll 
bet.  And  your  chums  the  same,  kid  —  wouldn't 
they?" 

"I  got  chums  who  might  be  surprised  to  know 
where  I  am,  maybe,"  I  says.  "But  I  ain't  sure 
about  them  wantin'  to  swap  places  with  me  if 
they  knew.  If  I  was  where  they  are,  I  know  I 
wouldn't." 

"Would  it  jolt  you,  kid,  if  you  thought  you 
might  never  see  your  home  again?"  says  Brown. 

I  don't  want  to  add  any  gloom  to  what  we  got 
already  by  saying  I  got  no  home,  so  I  ony  say: 

149 


Hiker  Joy 

"Yeah,"  having  a  moving-picture  in  my  mind 
of  the  last  time  I  saw  it,  of  uncle-in-law,  he  try- 
ing to  fetch  me  one  with  a  towel  roller  and  me 
going  out  the  kitchen  window. 

"A  man's  got  to  live  a  few  thousand  miles 
away  from  home  for  a  while,"  Brown  goes  on, 
"to  know  what  home  means,  don't  he  ?" 

I  think  of  my  fine  dry  seckselsior  box  in  that 
cellar  near  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  and— "You're 
right  he  does,"  I  say,  meaning  it  this  time. 

"Before  the  war,"  says  Brown,  "I  was  working 
where  I  had  to  drive  a  gang  of  men  outdoors. 
Hard  work.  Some  days,'  perhaps  in  winter, 
I'd  be  feeling  all  in  and  thinking  it  was  a  devil 
of  a  world  to  have  to  make  a  living  in;  but  when 
I'd  come  home  that  evening,  sometimes  all  soaked 
in  rain  or  snow,  there  would  be  my  mother  at 
the  door  to  take  my  coat  and  ask  me  how  I  made 
out,  and  there  would  be  my  little  sister  to  run  and 
get  my  slippers.  Even  my  fresh  kid  brother 
would  say:  'Tough  goin'  to-day,  was  it?'  And 
hand  over  the  best  chair  before  the  fire  and  the 
evening  paper  all  opened  out  to  the  sporting  page, 
and  the  table  would  be  all  set  for  dinner,  and 
afterward  perhaps  my  father  would  pass  me  a 
good  cigar  while  we're  sitting  before  the  fire, 
and  perhaps  a  few  girl  chums  of  my  sisters  would 
drop  in  and  sing  a  few  songs  and  play  a  little, 


The  Flying  Sailor 

and — but  thinking  of  those  things  cheers  a  man 
up  and  makes  him  feel  blue  the  same  time,  don't 
they?" 

"Yeah,"  I  said,  "'specially  papa  slippin'  me 
the  good  smokes." 

Night  comes,  but  this  night  no  moon  or  stars  to 
look  at,  which  makes  a  long  night  of  it,  and  in 
the  night  we  feel  our  boat  bouncing  around  un- 
der us.  When  the  first  little  light  of  day  comes 
there's  white  caps  for  us  to  look  at  on  the  water; 
and  while  we're  looking  at  them,  a  sea  comes 
along  and  knocks  off  one  or  two  little  wings 
astern,  and  when  it  does  the  tail  of  our  boat  be- 
gins to  flop  around. 

Brown  don't  like  that.  "  She'll  be  leaking  next," 
he  says: 

This  pontoon  ain't  a  boat  or  a  fish.  She  ha£  a 
head  and  tail  like  a  big  fish,  but  there's  no  fins  on 
her  like  a  fish  oughta  have,  nor  no  keel  like  any 
decent  boat,  and  her  sides  are  straight  like  a  box, 
all  of  which  makes  her  bounce  around.  So  bimeby 
when  it  gets  a  little  more  rough  we  have  to  tuck 
down  into  the  place  where  Brown  does  his  steer- 
ing to  keep  from  being  rolled  overboard. 

Brown  guesses  right  about  her  going  to  leak 
astern.  Her  fancy  tail  begins  to  settle  in  the 
water,  and  the  next  thing  is  the  water  crawling 
toward  us.  Bimeby  she's  low  down  enough  all 


Hiker  Joy 

over  to  make  us  be  standing  to  our  knees  in  water 
when  we  are  in  the  bow. 

We're  feeling  hungry,  and  more  thirsty  than 
we're  hungry,  meaning  we're  pretty  thirsty.  A 
rain  comes  drizzling  down,  and  we  stretch  out 
and  lap  it  up  off  the  top  planks  of  the  pontoon  for 
as  far  as  we  can  reach  from  the  cock-pit.  They're 
nice  new-varnished  planks,  pretty  to  look  at,  but 
never  meant  for  grub.  Soon  we're  trying  to  wipe 
off  our  tongues  and  spitting  out  all  over  the  place 
to  get  the  taste  out  of  our  mouths,  and  Brown  is 
saying: 

"The  way  I  feel  now  I  wouldn't  care  if  a  U-boat 
came  along  and  picked  us  up." 

"Or  even  one  o'  those  neutral  ships,"  I  says. 
"An'  it  wouldn't  have  to  be  a  Norwegian  or  a 
Dane — a  Chinaman  or  a  Patagonian  would  do 
me  fine." 

"You  should  be  more  scared,"  says  Brown. 

"Scared?  The  most  I  been  doin'  since  leavin' 
New  York  is  gettin'  scared.  I'm  scared  enough 
right  now,  an'  ready  to  be  more  scared  if  it'll  get 
us  off  this  wreck.  But  there's  no  sense  bein' 
scared  without  reason,  Bill  Green  says.  Bein'  a 
little  bit  scared  is  all  right,  says  Bill — it  makes  a 
fuhla  step  a  little  more  lively  to  keep  ahead  of 
whatever's  after  him.  But  bein'  scared  so's  to 
worry — that  don't  get  a  guy  anywhere,  Bill  says." 

152 


The  Flying  Sailor 

Bimeby  Brown  says:  "Well,  we  did  a  good  job 
even  if  we're  never  saved.  We  got  that  Zep. 
But  too  bad  for  you  that  you're  not  a  little  older 
and  in  uniform." 

I  says  "Why?" 

"You  would  get  credit,  or  your  folks  would  for 
your  part." 

"O?  What  I  oughta  done,"  I  says,  "before 
goin'  up  with  you  was  to  look  around  for  a  yuni- 
form  an'  a  recruitin'  officer  somewheres,  hah  ? " 

"You  would  have  got  a  medal  for  it.  Wouldn't 
you  like  a  medal  ? " 

"Sure,  an'  right  now  if  I  could  eat  it." 

Which  I  suppose  makes  Brown  say:  "What  do 
you  think  would  go  pretty  good  to  eat  now? 
Stop  and  think  up  something  nice  'n'  juicy." 

"I  don't  have  to  stop  'n'  think,"  I  says.  "A 
case  o'  canned  peaches.  No,  make  it  two  cases — 
I  c'n  eat  one  myself." 

"I  was  thinking  pears  myself,"  says  Brown/ 
"But  you're  right,  kid — peaches  are  juicier  than 
pears.  But  wait — I  'most  forgot,"  and  he  hauls 
out  a  pair  of  dice. 

"Where  yuh  goin'  to  roll  'em?"  I  says. 

"We're  not  going  to  roll  'em.  We'll  stand  watch 
and  watch  chewing  them — ten  minutes  watches, 
you  first." 

So  we  take  turns  sucking  the  dice,  guessing 
153 


Hiker  Joy 

when  the  ten  minutes  is  up,  till  we  suck  the  spots 
clean  off  them.  By  then  we're  both  of  us  sea- 
sick from  the  bouncing  around  of  the  boat,  which 
don't  pitch  and  roll  like  any  regular  boat,  but 
goes  every  which  way. 

"If  we  only  had  something  in  our  stomachs  to 
be  seasick  right !"  says  Brown.  But  there's  noth- 
ing, so  we  take  turns  heaving  up  all  we  ain't  got, 
Brown  on  the  port  side  and  me  on  the  starboard 
side  the  pontoon. 

Bimeby  we  can't  even  dry-heave  any  more, 
and  we're  looking  out  on  the  sea  when  Brown 
spots  a  raft  drifting  by,  and  on  top  of  the  raft  a 
little  bag  like  women  wear  hanging  to  their  wrists. 
It's  ony  a  little  ways  off  and  I  swim  out  and  tow 
it  in,  and  we're  both  of  us  all  set  for  finding 
something  we  can  maybe  eat.  Brown  opens,  the 
bag  and  has  a  peek.  And  I  have  a  peek.  He 
hauls  a  swell-looking  bottle  of  zinc  ointment  from 
the  bag. 

"Can't  you  see  that  noble  dame,"  says  Brown, 
"rushing  back  as  the  ship  was  sinking — at  the 
very  last  moment  rushing  back  to  save  that 
precious  ointment  ?  Can't  you  see  her  ? " 

"Sure,"  I  says.  "Plain.  She's  got  a  Roman 
nose— a  fat  dame." 

"With  a  high  chest,  and — God  bless  her,  yes 
— a  feather  in  her  hat !" 

154 


The  Flying  Sailor 

He's  going  to  heave  it  back  into  the  sea,  but  I 
grab  it  and  rub  it  on  my  feet  which  're  swelling 
up  like  they're  going  to  have  some  new  kind  of  a 
disease. 

There's  more  than  the  fat  dame  coming  to 
worry  us.  The  sea's  been  making  since  morning, 
and  now  every  white  cap  rolls  up  to  us  like  it 
wants  to  see  can  it  knock  another  feather  off  our 
tail,  or  maybe  a  little  bit  off  one  of  our  wings. 
We  wonder  will  they  hang  on  much  longer,  and 
when  they  go  will  the  pontoon  capsize  or  sink  or 
what'll  it  do  ?  Whatever  it  does  it  ain't  a  nawful 
long  time  now  to  dark,  and  it's  bad  swimming 
around — swimming  around  not  knowing  where  a 
fuhla  is  in  the  day,  but  at  night — !  I  rub  more 
ointment  into  my  feet  so's  to  forget  it.  But  I 
don't  forget  it  much.  I  don't  know  what  Brown 
is  thinking  alongside  me,  but  "Jeezooks!"  I  say 
to  myself— "I  been  dodgin'  the  trolleys  'n'  cops 
of  Brooklyn  'n'  the  Yeast  side  an'  nothin'  happen- 
in'  me  since  I'm  a  kid,  an'  the  first  time  I  come  to 
Europe  I'm  wrecked  on  a  craft  that  ain't  a  fish  or  a 
bird  or  a  ship  in  the  middle  of  the  North  Sea,  or 
wherever  it  is  we  are!" 

I'm  thinking  like  that  wondering  will  I  ever  see 
the  Battery  again,  and  are  the  Jack  o'  Lanterns 
having  their  runs  on  mystic  nights,  and  where  Bill 
is  and  Mr.  Nugent,  when  I  think  I  see  smoke. 

155 


Hiker  Joy 

Brown  and  me  're  leaning  against  each  other  and 
I  think  he's  asleep  and  so  I  open  and  close  my 
eyes  three  times  before  I  bother  him.  But  when 
I  nudge  him  he  ain't  asleep  a  tall. 

"You  see  it  too  ?    Good  !"  he  says. 

"Looks  like  it's  headed  this  way  to  me,"  I 
says  bimeby. 

"It  does  look  it.  But  sh-h-!  Not  a  sound! 
We  do  and  she'll  turn  and  scoot  the  other  way !" 
I'm  writing  this  easy  here,  but  we're  both  of  us 
whispering  like  a  coupla  sick  frogs,  and  every 
whisper  like  a  knife  cutting  into  our  throats, 
they're  so  swelled  up  and  sore.  Our  hands  and 
feet  and  our  faces  are  all  swelled  up  too. 

The  smoke  and  the  ship  under  it  comes  straight 
on  and  when  it's  maybe  half  a  mile  away  she 
steams  once  around  us,  and  then  she  comes 
straight  for  us  and  over  goes  a  boat,  and  jumping 
it  comes  with  half  a  dozen  gobs  rowing  to  along- 
side the  pontoon. 

There's  a  young  officer  in  the  stern  and  he 
salines  Brown  and  Brown  salutes  him  and  a 
coupla  gobs  reach  for  Brown,  but  he  points  to 
me,  so  they  help  me  into  the  boat  first.  Then 
they  help  Brown  in,  and  hustle  for  the  ship  which 
I  see  is  a  destroyer  when  we  get  near  it. 

We  get  alongside  and—  "Careful — careful" 
somebody  is  saying  to  Brown  who's  standing  up 


The  Flying  Sailor 

in  the  boat — trying  to  stand  up.  "Destroyer? 
American  destroyer  ? "  says  Brown. 

"Sure,  what  else?"  says  the  same  voice  from 
her  deck. 

It  sounds  like  Mr.  Nugent's  voice  ony  what's 
he  doing  aboard  a  destroj^er? 

"American  destroyer!"  says  Brown  and  looks 
like  he's  looking  for  a  flag  somewheres.  There 
ain't  any  there  but  he  salutes  anyway. 

"Wait,"  says  Mr.  Nugent's  voice  to  Brown 
who's  starting  to  go  up  the  ladder. 

"I  can  make  it,  sir,"  says  Brown,  but  he  don't 
make  it.  Ony  for  three  or  four  gobs  he'd  fallen 
into  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

"And  how  are  you,  son?"  says  Nugent's  voice 
when  it  comes  my  turn.  And  I  have  a  peek  and 
it  is  Mr.  Nugent  in  a  norficer's  uniform.  And  he 
has  another  peek  at  me  and — "Hullo-o,  Hiker!" 
he  says.  "How  are  you,  son?" 

"Fine  'n'  dandy,"  I  says,  and  try  to  go  up  the 
ladder,  and  when  I  do — "Grab  him — quick!" 
says  Mr.  Nugent. 

"What  for?"  I  start  to  say — but  I  don't.  I 
guess  I  pass  out  about  then,  'cause  the  next  thing 
I'm  somewheres  below  and  they're  feeding  me 
with  a  spoon. 

The  next  thing  I  wake  up  after  another  sleep. 

"Where's   Mr.   Nugent?"   I   says;  and  a  gob 

157 


Hiker  Joy 

goes  out  and  comes  back  with  the  Mr.  Nugent 
who's  in  a  navy  officer's  rig  with  two  wide 
stripes  and  one  narrer  one  on  his  sleeve. 

"What've  you  been  doing  since  I  saw  you  last, 
Hiker?"  he  says. 

"Mostly  tryin'  not  to  be  scared  to  death,"  I 
says;  and  I  tell  him  what's  happened  me  since  I 
left  the  hoss-boat.  "I  got  the  belt  here,"  I  says, 
and  I  reach  for  it  to  show  him,  but  it's  gone. 

"I  took  it  off  you,"  says  Mr.  Nugent.  "It  is 
now  in  London  where  we  will  both  go  by  and  by 
to  clean  up  the  last  of  that  gang,  I  hope." 

"Where's  Bill?"  I  says. 

"I  can't  tell  you." 

"Gone,  is  he?" 

"I  hope  not." 

"The  girl  all  right?" 

He  smiles  like.  "I'll  tell  you  about  her  and 
myself  later.  Yes,  she's  all  right.  But  you  bet- 
ter lie  down  again." 

The  doctor  comes  along  then  and  says  yes  I'd 
better  lie  down,  too,  and  they  pour  about  a 
bucket  of  some  kinda  broth  into  me;  and  then  I 
lie  down  thinking:  "It's  all  right  bein'  wrecked  an* 
picked  up,  but  where's  the  fun  if  Bill's  gone  ? " 


158 


Wimmin  'n'  Girls 

NEXT  time  I  come  awake  there's  another 
officer  sitting  alongside  my  bunk.  The 
captain  of  the  destroyer  he  is,  and  a  good  scout. 
He  asks  me  a  few  questions  and  the  next  thing 
I'm  being  rigged  out  in  a  gob's  uniform.  They 
have  to  saw  about  a  foot  off  the  pants  legs  and 
take  about  three  reefs  in  the  rest  of  it  and  what 
they  call  the  blouse,  and  stuff  the  shoes  where  my 
feet  don't  fill  'em  with  cotton  waste. 

But  I  feel  pretty  swell  and  I  go  up  on  deck  where 
a  bunch  of  gobs  tell  me  that  they  dunno  but  they'll 
make  me  the  ship's  mascot  'stead  of  a  parrot  who 
got  washed  overboard  and  a  goat  who  died  of 
eating  canned  willie.  Our  ship  is  a  destroyer 
and  she's  one  of  a  bunch  of  destroyers  who' re 
what  they  call  convoying  a  lotta  freight  steamers, 
and  I'm  watching  the  steamers  bowing  up  and 
down  to  the  yocean  and  the  destroyers  zigzagging 
all  around  'em  when  a  nofficer  who  the  gobs 
call  the  Exec  comes  along  the  deck  and  asts  me 
don't  I  want  to  help  him  out  in  the  ship's  naviga- 
tion, and  I  say  "Sure!"  and  go  up  with  him  to 
what  they  call  the  chart  room,  where  my  job  is 

159 


Hiker  Joy 

to  keep  an  eye  on  a  coupla  paper  weights.  If 
they  bounce  off  then  the  chart  '11  curl  up  and 
he  can't  navigate  the  Exec  says. 

So  I'm  there  tending  to  the  paper  weights 
when  Mr.  Nugent  comes  in.  He's  been  standing 
four  tough  hours  of  watch  on  the  bridge,  and  he 
oughta  been  feeling  tired,  but  since  I  seen  him 
on  the  hoss-boat  he's  acting  a  lot  more  younger 
and  snappy  looking,  and  he  comes  in  now  jigging 
a  little  and  humming  a  little  and  rolling  a  cigarette. 

I  look  at  him  to  see  will  he  slip  me  the  makin's 
and  he  does  only  he  has  to  add  on:  " Smoking 
and  all  kinds  of  excitement  at  your  age — what 
d'y'  suppose  you'll  have  to  look  forward  to  when 
you  grow  up  ?" 

"He  could  fall  in  love  and  get  married  couldn't 
he?"  says  the  Exec,  and  stabs  a  sharp  pencil  point 
where  he  thinks  the  ship  is  on  the  chart  and  then 
says:  "O  dam,"  and  rubs  it  out,  meaning  she 
ain't  there  a  tall,  and  then  he  adds  on:  "Nujie, 
you  didn't  finish  telling  how  you  come  to  be  mar- 
ried so  suddenly." 

Mr.  Nugent  who's  laid  down  on  the  transom 
and  is  blowing  smoke  rings  into  the  air,  he  sits 
right  up,  saying:  "So  I  didn't.  Weil  the  first 
officer  of  that  horse-boat  was  in  the  enemy's 
pay  all  the  time,  and  when  she  hit  that  mine  and 
he  rushes  Margie  into  the  motor  boat  I  get  into 

160 


Wimmin  'n'  Girls 

the  boat  too.  Later  when  it's  so  dark  that 
we  can't  see  the  other  boats  or  the  life  rafts  he 
tells  me  to  get  out  of  the  boat. 

" Where  '11  I  get  to?'  I  says.  His  answer  is 
to  say:  'Miss  Rush,  this  man  is  a  German  spy/ 
and  to  pull  an  automatic  on  me,  but  I'm  all  set 
for  that  and  beat  him  to  it.  I  drop  him — dead, 
and  there  we  are,  Margie  and  I,  alone  in  a  motor 
boat  when  a  little  blow  comes  up.  Margie  still 
thinks  that  was  a  great  storm  and  me  a  hero  for 
pulling  her  through  it." 

"No  harm  the  i*ight  woman  thinking  that  way 
about  you,  is  there  ?"  says  the  Exec. 

"Maybe  not,  only  some  day  I  may  have  to 
live  up  to  being  a  hero  and  then  what  ?  Anyway, 
this  thunder  and  lightning  comes  along,  and  there's 
a  little  sea  running,  though  perhaps  more  wind 
than  sea.  But  about  all  I  have  to  do  is  to  put 
her  stern  to  it,  give  her  steerage  way  and  let  her 
ride  it  out.  It's  all  over  in  two  or  three  hours, 
and  next  morning  we  run  into  some  limie  patrol 
boats,  who  nearly  blow  us  out  of  water  making 
sure  we're  not  a  masquerading  U-boat,  and  then 
take  us  ashore,  and  that  evening  while  we're 
watching  the  sun  set  from  the  dining-room  win- 
dows of  a  little  inn  in  the  country  we  talk  the  thing 


over." 


And  between  that  ship's  sinking  and  the  little 
161 


Hiker  Joy 

inn  more  chance  for  the  heart  to  heart  stuff  than 
in  five  years  of  peace  times  ashore,  I'll  bet,"  says 
the  Exec. 

"Five?  Twenty-five!"  says  Mr.  Nugent. 
"We  sit  there  and  talk,  and  even  with  her  uncle 
missing,  after  I've  shown  her  he  has  a  fine  chance 
to  be  picked  up  we  agree  there's  no  reason  in  the 
world  why  we  shouldn't  get  married.  And  next 
day  we  do  get  married.  And  there  she  is  now  in  a 
little  cottage  on  that  hilly  island  just  inside  the 
naval  base,  and  already  she  can  pick  out  our 
destroyers  from  the  limies.  And  when  it's  this 
little  old  flivver  comes  up  to  the  barrage— 
ah-h!" 

"Ah-h  what  ?"  says  the  Exec. 

"Another  hod  of  coal  into  the  grate  and  from 
out  the  closet  the  easy  slippers  and  the  smoking 
jacket  she  bought  me." 

"Greets  you  with  battle  cries,  too,  I  suppose?" 
says  the  Exec. 

"Greets  me  and  speeds  me  with  little  prayers," 
says  Mr.  Nugent,  but  not  smiling  as  much  this 
time.  "And  she  thinks  every  officer  and  enlisted 
man  over  here  would  be  much  better  off  for  hav- 
ing a  wife  waiting  for  him  when  in  he  comes  from 
the  dangers  of  the  sea  in  these  war  days." 

"Wait,  wait  a  second  !"  says  the  Exec.  "Your 
wife  said  something  then.  But  here's  the  other 

162 


Wimmin  'n'  Girls 

side  of  that.  Now  you're  married.  Suppose  a 
life  and  death  chance  turns  up — would  you  or 
wouldn't  you — —  ?" 

"You'll  hook  me  into  none  of  your  arguments 
to-day,"  says  Mr.  Nugent.  "I  don't  know  what 
I'd  do — who  does  till  he's  up  against  it  ?  And 
I'm  going  below  now  to  fill  in  the  diary  I'm  keep- 
ing for  her." 

And  here's  where  the  wimmin  'n'  girls  part 
comes  in.  Bill  says  one  time:  "Why  don't  yuh 
say  somethin'  about  wimmin  'n'  girls  ? "  And  I 
say:  "What  do  I  know  about  girls  or  wimmin  ?" 
And  Bill  says:  "What  do  a  lot  o'  guys  know  that 
write  about  'em  ?  Yuh  can  put  down  what  yuh 
hear  'n'  see,  can't  yuh  ?" 

And  that's  what  I'm  putting  down  now — what 
I  hear  'n'  see.  Mr.  Nugent  goes  outa  the  chart 
room  and  it  looks  like  a  good  argument  is  ended, 
but  the  Exec  is  a  great  guy  to  get  to  what  he  calls 
the  bottom  of  things,  and  bimeby  when  a  chief 
machinist's  mate — a  wise,  tough-looking  old  bird 
named  Masters — comes  in  to  report  something, 
and  he  reports  it  and  is  going  out,  the  Exec  holds 
him  up,  saying: 

"Here,  Masters,  here's  a  question  which  has 
nothing  to  do  with  your  line  of  duty,  but  you're 
older  than  most  of  us  in  the  ways  of  life:  Will  a 
man  be  any  the  better  or  worse  a' fighting  man  for 

163 


Hiker  Joy 

having  some  woman  waiting  for  him  every  time 
he  comes  ashore  ? " 

"Is  it  a  nold  or  young  man  ?"  says  Masters. 

"Old  or  young,  what  matter  ?"  says  the  Exec. 

"Ah,  sir,  but  don't  it  ?  It  is  the  young  has  the 
illusions — or  delusions — and  without  them  where 
would  be  the  wars  ? " 

"But  young  people  don't  start  wars  ?"  says  the 
Exec. 

"No,  sir,  but  it's  young  men  who  have  to  finish 
them.  Is  he  married  or  single,  sir?"  says  Mas- 
ters. 

The  Exec  says  he's  married,  and  Masters  says 
how  long  ? 

"M-m-m — a  few  weeks,"  says  the  Exec. 

"Does  he  call  that  bein'  married?"  says  Mas- 
ters. "Now  when  he's  married  twenty-eight 
years  like  me " 

"Twenty-eight  years  married  ?"  says  the  Exec, 
"and  you  go  to  war!" 

"It's  a  great  place,  war,  to  forget  your  trou- 
bles, sir.  But  what  sort  is  the  woman,  sir?" 
says  Masters. 

"I  never  saw  her,  but  take  any  woman,  take 
your  own  wife,"  says  the  Exec. 

"Aye,  aye,  sir,  but  which  one  ?  I'm  havin'  my 
third  one  now,"  says  Masters. 

"Good  Lord!"  says  the  Exec.  "Take  any 
164 


Wimmin  V  Girls 

one  of  'em.  Take  your  present  wife;  will  the 
thought  of  her  make  you  any  less  or  any  more  of 
a  hero?" 

"I  am  no  hero,  sir,"  says  Masters.  "I'm  a 
plain  man.  But  should  a  day  of  trial  come  I  hope 
I'll  not  disgrace  my  trainin'  or  my  navy,  sir." 

Masters  goes  out,  and  when  he  does  and  Bingo 
White,  seaman  first  class,  happens  to  be  passing 
down  from  the  bridge,  the  Exec  flags  him  saying: 
"You  are  not  married,  White?" 

"No  sir,"  says  Bingo,  "but  I  hope  to  be,  sir— 
I'm  engaged." 

"Good!  Just  the  man — young,  happy,  and 
the  joy  of  life  before  you.  What  do  you  think, 
White — would  you  risk  your  life  all  the  quicker, 
or  not  so  quick,  because  of  a  young  girl  waiting 
for  you  ashore  ?" 

"Why,  sir,"  says  Bingo,  "I  dunno's  I  ever 
thought  about  it." 

"But  think  of  it  now.  Suppose  you  died  taking 
a  chance — how  would  the  young  lady  take  it?" 

"Why,"  says  Bingo,  "'less  her  letters  are  all 
camouflage  she'd  feel  pretty  bad." 

"Then  she  would  be  just  as  glad  to  see  you— 
no  matter  what  your  record  was  ?"  says  the  Exec. 

"Oh,  I  dunno's  she'd  want  to  see  any  red  ink 
marks  against  my  record,  sir." 

"Then  you  have  talked  it  over  with  her  ?" 

165 


Hiker  Joy 

"Why" — Bingo's  one  of  those  guys  who  it 
don't  hurt  him  to  smile — "I  don't  remember's 
ever  wasting  any  o'  my  liberty  talkin'  that  stuff," 
says  Bingo.  And  like  he  wants  not  to  show 
any  disrespect,  he  adds  on:  "My  girl  always 
sorta  made  me  feel  she's  believin'  that  no  matter 
what  it  is — live  or  die — I'll  be  there  when  the 
time  comes." 

Before  the  Exec  can  call  in  any  more  of  the  crew 
I  slip  out  on  deck  to  see  what's  doing  with  the 
convoy.  They're  still  there  rolling  from  one  side 
to  the  other  in  what  they  call  columns,  and  the 
rolling  means  there's  a  ground  swell  on,  and  all 
the  weather  sharks  aboard  say  a  ground  swell 
means  bad  weather  somewheres,  or  if  there  ain't 
there  will  be. 

Bimeby  we  turn  the  convoy  loose  and  when  we 
do  the  ranking  officer's  ship  signals:  "Make  the 
best  of  your  way  home,"  meaning  we're  all  to 
beat  it  for  our  base.  And  nobody  loses  any  time 
starting,  and  we're  swinging  along — not  racing  o* 
course,  but  taking  notice  that  nobody's  passing 
us,  and  everybody's  feeling  pretty  good,  because 
after  keeping  a  week's  lookout  night  and  day  for 
U-boats — well,  no  matter  how  much  nerve  a  guy 
has  he  can  have  a  little  more  and  still  not  hate  to 
have  a  little  lay  off  from  that  kind  of  a  game  for 
a  few  days. 

166 


Wimmin  V  Girls 

So  everybody's  feeling  pretty  good,  and  nobody 
feeling  any  better  than  Mr.  Nugent,  who's  putting 
in  most  of  his  time  skipping  up  to  the  bridge  to 
see  how  many  knots  she's  making,  and  then  back 
to  the  chart  room  to  see  how  many  more  miles 
she's  got  to  go,  and  the  Exec  peeking  up  at  him 
says:  "Oh,  but  how  you  will  hate  to  get  home !" 
And  he  no  sooner  says  it  when  a  gob  on  watch 
yells  out  something,  and  the  captain  and  watch 
officer  up  with  their  glasses  and  our  course  is 
shifted,  and  the  next  thing  we're  running  handy 
to  a  ship  rolling  to  her  rail.  We're  rolling  to  our 
rail,  too,  but  we're  swinging  through  the  swell  at 
thirty  knots,  which  is  some  excuse  for  rolling, 
while  this  ship  is  laying  still,  meaning  she's  prob- 
'ly  logy  with  water  inside  her. 

She's  a  big  what  they  call  a  turret  ship,  meaning 
her  sides  are  built  out  from  where  her  water  line 
oughta  be — a  new  invention — so  when  a  U-boat 
plunks  a  torpedo  into  her  it  won't  have  so  much 
chance  to  blow  her  up.  The  captain  sends  a 
boat's  crew  in  charge  of  Mr.  Nugent  to  have  a 
look  into  her.  And  he  goes  and  comes  back  and 
reports  she's  the  Lincoln  Castle  from  Southamp- 
ton and  she's  been  torpedoed  or  mined,  and  is 
loaded  down  with  grain,  flour,  and  canned  goods 
with  nobody  aboard. 

"A  pity  she  could  not  be  brought  to  port — 


Hiker  Joy 

Lord  knows  they  need  her  cargo  right  now  in 
England,"  says  the  captain. 

"I'd  like  to  take  a  gang  of  men,  sir,"  says  Mr. 
Nugent,  "and  try  to  get  her  into  port." 

The  captain  says  it  wouldn't  be  right  to  order 
men  to  her  the  way  the  weather's  looking,  and 
when  he  does:  "How  about  volunteers,  sir  ?"  says 
Mr.  Nugent. 

"If  you  can  get  'em — yes,"  says  the  captain, 
and  the  second  he  says  it  a  deck-load  of  gobs  be- 
gin to  move  toward  Mr.  Nugent. 

The  third  watch  officer  is  a  snappy,  young  one, 
straight  from  what  they  call  Annapolis,  and  he 
steps  up  and  touches  Mr.  Nugent  on  the  shoulder, 
saying:  "How  about  me  taking  that  job  off 
your  hands  ?" 

"Why  you  especially?"  says  Mr.  Nugent. 

"I'm  not  married,  you  know." 

"Cheer  up,"  says  Mr.  Nugent,  "you  may  be 
yet,"  and  he  begins  to  look  over  the  men,  saying: 
"You're  all  plenty  good  enough  for  me.  But  I'll 
first  pick  out  four  machinist's  mates,  two  quarter- 
masters, and  a  radio  man." 

And  out  steps  old  Masters  saying:  "Machin- 
ist's mate,  right  here,  sir.  She's  an  oil-burner 
an'  I  can  take  that  kind  apart,  sir."  And  Bingo 
White  noses  in  behind  him  saying:  "Quarter- 
master, sir,  an*  if  we  gotta  do  our  own  boosting, 

168 


Wimmin  W  Girls 

then  I've  stood  to  the  wheel  of  a  Gloucester  fisher- 
man for  ten  hours,  she  carryin'  four  lowers  in  a 
livin'  gale." 

Bimeby  I  slip  up  to  Mr.  Nugent  saying:  "How 
about  me  for  a  messenger  to  scoot  up  and  down 
ladders  and  in  'n'  out  the  passageways  ?"  And  he 
takes  me,  and  we  shove  off  and  coming  along- 
side the  wreck  our  boat  'most  capsizes  by  the 
swell  hoisting  us  onto  where  her  turret  deck  is 
bulging  out.  But  we  get  aboard  her  and  hoist 
up  the  boat,  and  Mr.  Nugent  hurries  down  to  her 
fireroom,  where  old  Masters  right  away  says: 
"There's  a  few  gadgets  here  I  never  been  ship- 
mates with  before,  sir,  but  never  fear  I'll  soon 
dope  'em  out,  sir." 

And  he  does,  and  soon  she's  going  along  at 
what  the  revolutions  in  her  engine  room  said  was 
'most  six  knots  an  hour. 

"  Six  knots  ?  Fine ! "  says  Mr.  Nugent.  "  Keep 
that  up  and  we'll  have  her  in  port  in  two 
days." 

The  destroyer  is  all  this  time  standing  by  us, 
but  they  get  an  S  O  S  from  a  ship  torpedoed  some- 
wheres,  and  when  they  do  she  runs  alongside  and 
the  captain  hollers  out:  "It's  sixty  to  seventy 
miles  to  that  ship's  position,  Nugent,  and  I  don't 
like  the  looks  of  the  weather  around  here — better 
take  you  off,  hadn't  I  ?" 

169 


Hiker  Joy 

But  Mr.  Nugent  says  he  don't  want  to  be 
taken  off  just  when  they're  putting  a  little  breath 
o'  life  into  the  old  lady.  "But  there's  no  reason 
why  any  of  you  men  should  be  taking  any  extra 
chances — whoever  wants  to  can  go  back,"  he 
says  to  us. 

But  none  of  them  want  to  go  back.  "A  ship 
this  size  with  a  four  or  five  million  dollar  load  o' 
grub  in  her — jeepers  no !"  they  all  say. 

"All  right,"  says  our  destroyer  captain.  "I'll 
be  back  as  soon  as  I  can.  But  don't  forget, 
Nugent,  about  handling  a  boat  alongside  a  turret 
ship — they're  ugly  brutes  that  way." 

"And  the  cottage  on  the  hill — don't  forget 
that,"  sings  out  the  Exec,  and  the  destroyer  scoots 
off. 

We're  plugging  along  fine,  when  up  from  be- 
low comes  the  what  they  call  in  the  navy  a  car- 
penter's mate,  who's  been  sent  below  to  sound 
her,  and  he's  come  to  report,  saying :  "  Eight  foot 
three  of  water  in  the  for'ard  hold  sir." 

"It's  the  hole  in  her  bow,"  says  Mr.  Nugent. 
And — "put  her  stern  to  it,"  he  says  to  Bingo 
White  who's  at  the  wheel. 

So  Bingo  rolls  her  around  through  what  they 
call  the  trough  of  the  sea  and  gets  her  going 
stern  first.  But  she  don't  do  so  good  that  way. 
Masters  pretty  soon  is  talking  up  through  the 

170 


Wimmin  V  Girls 

tube  saying  he  can't  get  any  more  than  two  knots 
out  of  her  now. 

"Only  two?  Well,  not  so  bad,"  says  Mr. 
Nugent.  "Keep  that  up  and  we'll  have  her  in 
port  in  six  days." 

There's  a  young  gob  named  Whinners  looking 
in  from  the  wing  of  the  bridge:  "Say  Bingo,  we 
get  away  with  this  and  we'll  all  be  heroes,  huh  ?" 
says  Whinners. 

"We  don't  get  away  with  it  and  we'll  be  heroes 
too — ony  we  won't  be  hearin'  about  it  then," 
says  Bingo. 

"The  what  they  call  the  selectmen  of  my  town," 
says  Whinners,  "voted  to  put  the  names  of  all  of 
us  who' re  killed  in  the  war  on  a  marble  slab,  and 
set  it  up  near  the  Town  Hall  where  four  roads 
cross  so  no  tourists  can  miss  the  names — all 
heroes." 

"And  some  night  some  express  truck  'II  come 
outa  the  dark  and  roll  over  your  marble  slab  and — 
Bingo ! — no  more  heroes  in  your  town,"  says 
Bingo. 

"O  well,"  says  Whinners,  "a  guy  can't  expect 
to  be  a  hero  forever." 

Having  something  to  worry  over  always  makes 
gobs  more  cheerful,  and  they're  kidding  each  other 
along  that  way  till:  "Here  comes  the  gloom  guy," 
says  Whinners,  meaning  the  carpenter's  mate. 

171 


Hiker  Joy 

"Eight  foot  ten  for'ard  and  seven  foot  eight 
aft,"  says  the  carpenter's  mate. 

"That  so?  She  must  've  been  hit  aft  too," 
says  Mr.  Nugent.  "I'd  better  have  a  look," 
and  he  goes  below  decks,  and  bimeby  is  back 
saying:  "Steaming  bow  first  we  take  in  water, 
and  steaming  stern  first  we  take  in  water.  Too 
bad  we  can't  steam  the  old  rip  sideways.  Let's 
try  pumping  her  out."  And  whistles  down  to 
Masters  and  he  connects  up  the  pumping  gear. 

But  after  about  an  hour  of  it  and  no  gaining  on 
the  water  he  tells  them  to  lay  off  saying:  "We'll 
send  her  ahead  easy  and  see  what." 

Bimeby  the  carpenter's  mate  comes  again 
saying:  "Nine  foot  six  for'ward,  eight  foot  five 
aft,  sir." 

"All  right,"  says  Mr.  Nugent.  "Hiker,  tell 
the  radio  operator  to  raise  the  destroyer,  and  say 
we  are  leaking  freely  fore  and  aft — but  no  more 
than  that — no  alarm  stuff,  tell  him." 

The  radio  man  sends  it  off,  and  bimeby  back 
comes  the  answer  from  the  destroyer:  "Fifty 
more  people  to  take  off  torpedoed  ship.  Keep 
me  informed." 

"Fifty  of  them  and  sixteen  of  us,"  says  Mr.  Nu- 
gent, when  he  reads  the  radio — "and  suffering 
people  probably  among  them.  No  use  worrying 
them  for  another  while." 

172 


Wimmin  'n'  Girls 

He  goes  out  on  the  bridge  wing  and  watches 
the  ocean,  which  'stead  of  having  a  noily-like 
smooth  swell  on  is  now  all  busted  out  into  little 
white  seas.  And  the  wind  is  beginning  to  blow. 

The  carpenter's  mate  comes  along  while  Mr. 
Nugent  is  studying  the  sea,  saying:  "Ten  foot 
four  for'ard,  nine  foot  two  aft,  sir." 

"All  right,"  says  Mr.  Nugent. 

Another  radio  comes  saying:  "Last  of  ship- 
wrecked people  alongside.  Give  position  and 
weather  conditions." 

The  white  seas  by  this  time  're  slapping  up 
against  our  sides  in  good  shape  and  the  wind  cry- 
ing like  it's  mourning  for  a  lot  o'  dead  people 
through  her  old  stays  and  guys. 

Mr.  Nugent  comes  in  from  the  wing  and 
writes:  "Have  steamed  fourteen  miles  north- 
west. Sea  choppy,  wind  strong  from  southeast. 
Moderate  tide  from  east,"  making  me  read  it  to 
be  sure  the  radio  man  gets  it  right. 

"The  Executive — he's  a  shark  on  navigation — 
he'll  lay  a  course  like  a  beam  of  light  for  us," 
I  hear  Mr.  Nugent  saying  as  I  go  out  the 
door. 

The  radio  man  gets  that  off  and  soon  has  an 
answer:  "Leaving  here  to  get  you.  Keep  me 
informed." 

The  carpenter's  mate  comes  into  the  wheel- 
173 


Hiker  Joy 

house  saying:  "Eleven  foot  for'ard,  nine  foot  ten 
aft,  sir." 

"And  the  bulkhead  doors?'5  asts  Mr.  Nugent. 

"Still  holding,  sir." 

"Good  !  All  right,"  says  Mr.  Nugent,  and  goes 
out  on  the  bridge  wing  and  has  another  look  at 
the  sea.  And  the  sea  is  now  breaking — smash ! 
against  our  rail  and  across  our  boat  deck  where 
there's  no  deckhouses  to  stop  it,  and  looking  up 
at  her  smoke-stacks,  and  it  being  too  dark  to  see 
good,  a  coupla  gobs  're  guessing  whether  she's 
taking  solid  water  down  them  or  is  it  only  spray 
swashing  into  them  when  she  rolls  low  down. 

Another  message  comes  asking  how  we're  get- 
ting on,  and  Mr.  Nugent  writes:  "If  the  bulk- 
head doors  hold  we  may  last  two  hours." 

I  take  that  down  and  back  comes  the  answer: 
"We  are  hurrying  to  you." 

The  carpenter's  mate  comes  in  again  saying: 
"Another  foot  fore  and  aft,  sir,"  like  he's  saying 
it's  a  fine  day  or  it  ain't  a  fine  day. 

"D'y'  'spose  anything  '11  ever  jar  that  guy?" 
says  Whinners. 

The  next  time  the  carpenter's  mate  comes  in  he 
says:  "Twelve  foot  nine  and  eleven  foot  four,  and 
bulkhead  doors  beginnin'  to  sag,  sir." 

"All  right,"  says  Mr.  Nugent;   and  writes: 

"May  hold  out  another  hour." 

174 


Wimmin  W  Girls 

"Hurry  that !"  he  says  to  me  and  I  do. 

The  answer  comes  back:  "Thirty  miles  to  go 
and  driving  her.  Stick." 

"Pass  that  around,"  says  Mr.  Nugent. 

I  do,  and  Bingo  reads  it  saying:  "You  guys 
know  what  that  drivin'  means  ?  It  means  her 
injins  're  drummin',  an'  her  old  smoke-stacks 
roarin'  an'  a  coupla  foot  o'  white  water  rollin' 
acrost  her  deck,  an'  under  the  white  water  her 
deck  plates  bucklin'  if  ony  a  guy  could  see  them ! 
An'  the  skipper's  on  the  bridge,  an'  many  a  watch 
I  stood  with  him,  and  down  the  tube  to  the  in- 
jin  room  I  c'n  hear  him,  an'  he's  sayin' — 'She's 
doing  fine — fine — but  could  you  give  her  just  a 
little  more?'  O,  she's  comin'  all  right — hurdlin* 
the  low  ones  an'  shootin'  about  half  her  length 
out  over  the  top  edges  of  the  high  ones,  an'  every 
look-out  bustin'  his  eyes  to  pick  us  out  in  the  dark. 
I  dunno  would  I  rather  be  on  her  or  this  one  right 
now,"  says  Bingo. 

The  carpenter's  mate  comes  in  and  starts  to 
say:  "Thirteen  foot " 

"You've  sounded  enough,"  says  Mr.  Nugent. 
"You  did  a  good  job  too.  Pass  the  word  for 
everybody  to  come  here." 

"Aye,  aye,  sir." 

"And  you,  Hiker,  tell  the  radio  operator  to 
send  out  an  S  0  S." 

175 


Hiker  Joy 

"Aye,  aye,  sir,"  I  says,  like  I'm  a  gob  myself, 
and  out  I  fly.  And  the  radio  man  sends  it,  but 
the  only  answer  we  get  is  from  our  own  little  old 
destroyer. 

"Twenty  miles  to  go  and  giving  her  hell  to  reach 
you.  Make  signal  lights,"  says  our  destroyer. 

So  Mr.  Nugent  says  to  turn  on  every  deck 
light  we  got  to  Masters  when  he  comes  on  deck, 
and  Masters  does,  and  they  look  fine — till  all  at 
once  they  go  out.  Every  light  goes  out — like 
that !  And  the  radio  don't  work,  meaning  the 
water's  got  to  her  what  they  call  dynamos. 

"Get  ends  of  rope  around  deck  or  sheets  out  of 
the  officers'  rooms.  Soak  'em  in  oil  and  make 
torches,"  says  Mr.  Nugent's  voice  in  the  dark; 
and  they  do  it. 

There  was  some  what  they  call  drums  of  oil 
on  her  boat  deck.  "Break  out  two  of  those 
drums,"  says  Mr.  Nugent,  and  they  break  them 
out. 

"Let  the  oil  leak  out — plenty  of  it — over  the 
lee  side!" 

They  let  it  leak. 

"Smash  into  the  cargo  and  get  all  the  wooden 
boxes  and  cases  you  can  lay  hands  on.  The 
bigger  the  better,  and  jump  to  it !" 

They  smash  in  and  haul  out  boxes,  jumping  to 
it. 

176 


Wimmin  'n'  Girls 

"  Soak  'em  in  oil.     Pile  a  lot  of  'em  on  that  top 
deckhouse — and  set  fire  to  'em." 

They  soak  'em  'n'  pile  'em  up  'n'  set  fire  to 


'em. 


"There's  a  signal  light  she'll  see!"  says  Mas- 
ters when  it's  blazing  up. 

"Stand  by  your  boat,"  says  Mr.  Nugent. 

They  stand  by. 

"Get  in  everybody — everybody  but  Masters 
and  White — and  don't  forget  your  life  vests." 
They  grab  life  vests  and  get  in — me  too,  when 
Mr.  Nugent  tells  me.  The  ship's  side  makes  a 
pretty  good  what  they  call  a  lee  for  the  boat 
and  the  light  from  the  signal  fire  is  shining- 
like  where  the  yoil  is  spread  out  over  the  water. 

"Masters  and  you  White,  slack  away  the  boat 
falls,"  says  Mr.  Nugent. 

They  slack  away  till  the  boat  is  in  the  water. 

"Now  White — and  you  Masters — drop  in." 

They're  both  of  'em  standing  under  the  light 
of  the  fire  on  the  deck  house,  and  we  see  Masters 
and  then  Bingo  draw  back  from  the  boat  falls. 

"What  are  you  waiting  for  ?"  says  Mr.  Nugent. 

And  Masters  says:  "Don't  you  go  in  the  boat, 
sir?" 

And  when  he  does  Mr.  Nugent  says:  "Masters, 
you've  been  twenty-nine  years  in  the  service?" 

"I  have,  sir,"  says  Masters. 
177 


Hiker  Joy 

"You  have?  And  since  when  does  a  ship's 
commander  go  over  the  side  before  his  men  ?" 

Masters  salutes  and  slides  down  one  of  the  falls 
and  Bingo  down  the  other.  They  don't  have 
far  to  slide — she's  pretty  low. 

"Masters,  you're  in  charge,"  calls  Mr.  Nugent 
from  the  deck.  "But  let  White  handle  the  tiller. 
Stick  in  the  oil-slick,  and  keep  her  head  to  sea. 
And  now  cast  clear  your  falls.  I  can  feel  her 
wallowing  under  me.  Let  that  turret  of  hers 
lift  up  and  over  goes  your  boat.  Cast  clear  and 
shove  off." 

"But,  Mr.  Nugent — "  Masters  starts  to  say. 

"Sit  down  in  the  boat.  I'm  staying.  Some 
one  must  keep  the  signal  fire  going.  How  are 
they  to  pick  up  a  speck  of  a  boat  or  a  ship  from 
out  of  the  wide  ocean  after  a  seventy  mile  run 
on  a  black  night  without  a  light  to  guide  them? 
Shove  off1— and  be  quick!" 

"Aye,  aye,  sir,"  says  Masters,  and  we  shove  off. 

The  sea  out  from  the  side  of  the  ship  is  smooth- 
like  'count  of  the  yoil  from  the  drums  spreading 
over  it.  There's  high  swells,  and  most  straight 
up  V  down  the  boat  has  to  go  to  get  over  them, 
but  the  yoil  keeps  them  from  busting  out  into 
white  water,  and  with  Bingo  steering  her  head  on 
to  wherever  he  sorta  feels  the  rollers  coming, 
we  make  away  from  the  ship  pretty  good. 


Wimmin  'n'  Girls 

We  don't  expect  to  have  it  that  way  too  long. 
About  all  we're  hoping  is  for  the  destroyer  to 
find  us  before  we  capsize,  and  so  we  won't  cap- 
size too  quick  the  carpenter's  mate  is  tending  to 
a  coupla  oil-bags  with  holes  in  them  for  letting 
out  more  oil  from  the  bow  as  the  boat  moves 
along.  He's  a  great  guy  that  carpenter's  mate. 
He  don't  ever  open  his  mouth  unless  it's  to  say 
something,  which  is  maybe  why  everybody  takes 
notice  when  he  do  open  his  mouth.  We  ain't 
been  five  minutes  away  from  the  ship  when  he 
opens  it.  It's  ony  one  word,  but  it's  a  mouthful. 

"Searchlight!"  he  yells. 

Searchlight!  The  next  time  the  boat  rides 
up  on  a  swell  we  can  all  see  it.  Shining  up  on  the 
clouds  it  is  when  we  see  it,  but  down  we  go  and 
lose  it.  Atop  of  another  swell  we  get  another 
peek  at  it.  Shining  on  the  roaring  seas  it  is,  seas 
outside  the  slick  with  their  boiling  white  tops  all 
curling  over  like  they're  waiting  to  fall  onto  some- 
body— on  us  and  the  boat  maybe  if  we  get  in 
their  way.  But  we're  sticking  all  we  can  to  the 
oil  slick. 

The  searchlight  is  coming  on  the  jump,  but  when 
we  think  it's  going  to  light  on  us  it  don't,  because 
we're  down  in  a  hollow  place  again.  It  goes  by 
us  and  on  to  the  turret  ship,  and  when  it  does  we 
see  where  her  bow  is  under  water  by  the  light 

179 


Hiker  Joy 

of  it.  And  from  the  bow  to  the  stern  the  light  is 
moving  like  it's  trying  to  find  us  and  can't. 

We  know  Mr.  Nugent's  stood  by  the  ship  by 
the  way  the  fire's  been  kept  lighting,  but  now 
when  we  look  we  don't  see  him.  The  search- 
light shows  us  the  whole  front  half  of  the  turret 
ship  going  under  water  while  we're  looking.  The 
signal  fire  is  near  the  stern,  and  the  sea  rushes  up 
the  sinking  deck  like  going  up  the  side  of  a  house, 
and  the  fire  settles  right  down  into  the  water  and 
— ss-st !  no  more  fire.  No  sign  there  was  ever 
one  there,  'less  some  big  boxes  floating  alongside 
empty  is  a  sign.  The  stern  of  the  ship  goes  next, 
kinda  hanging  in  the  air  like  it  hates  to  go.  Then 
under  it  goes.  The  last  thing  is  her  propeller 
sticking  up.  And  we're  looking  at  her  propeller 
with  the  searchlight  on  it  when  we  see  a  man 
standing  straight  up  on  a  blade  of  it.  Just  be- 
fore the  propeller  goes  under  he  dives. 

We  don't  see  him  come  up.  "He  maybe  kicked 
clear  but  I'm  afraid  he's  gone!"  says  Masters. 

"Smothered  an'  choked  an'  beat  to  death — 
that's  what  he'll  be  in  that  sea !"  says  Bingo. 

"We  shouldn't  Ve  left  the  ship  without  him," 
says  Masters. 

"A  coupla  bums — that's  what  we  are!"  says 
Bingo.  "We  oughta  grabbed  him  and  throwed 
him  in  the  boat,  an'  let  'em  settle  it  by  court 

1 80 


Wimmin  'n'  Girls 

martial  whether  we  done  right  or  wrong  after- 
ward." 

The  searchlight  hops  from  where  the  ship  was 
to  the  oil  slick  around  us.  It  starts  to  one  side, 
sweeps  over  the  boat  when  we're  low  down,  and 
sweeps  back  and  when  up  we  rise  it  comes  Bing  I 
—like  a  bull's  eye  into  the  boat,  and  we're  still 
blinking  in  the  eye  of  it  when  we  hear  our  own 
captain's  voice  calling  out:  "I'll  make  a  lee  for 
the  boat.  Stand  by  then  for  our  heaving  lines  !" 

We  can  only  see  the  destroyer  like  a  shadow 
behind  the  searchlight,  and  the  searchlight  is 
jumping  and  rolling  toward  us.  It  works  to  wind- 
'ard,  and  then  a  line  comes  whistling  to  one  side 
of  us,  and  whis-st ! — one  to  the  other  side.  Then 
one  comes  'most  cutting  Whinners*  eye  out  into 
the  boat.  We  grab  it.  A  coupla  more  come  and 
we  grab  them  and  slip  'em  over  us,  one  after  the 
yother,  and  step  overboard  and  they  haul  us  in. 
A  tough  haul.  The  last  man  aboard  because  he 
has  to  hold  the  boat  head  to  sea  is  Bingo. 

They  sweep  the  seas  then  for  Mr.  Nugent. 
Everybody  aboard  is  looking  out  for  him.  And 
bimeby  two  or  three  see  him  the  same  time. 
He's  atop  of  a  big  wooden  box,  being  throwed 
away  up  and  then  away  down.  They  turn  the 
destroyer  quick  to  get  near  to  him,  and  when  they 
do  she  rolls  the  lowest  I  ever  see  a  ship  roll.  They 

181 


Hiker  Joy 

heave  a  line.  And  then  three  or  four  more  lines, 
and  two  of  'em  are  pretty  handy,  but  Mr.  Nu- 
gent don't  even  reach  for  them. 

Bingo's  standing  there,  still  with  his  life  line  on 
him.  "He's  all  in,"  says  Bingo,  and  goes  over 
the  side — not  into  any  smooth  oil-slicked  spot, 
but  among  the  rough  babies  with  their  boiling 
white  tops  all  ready  to  curl  over  and  grab  who- 
ever comes  along.  They  fall  onto  Bingo  and 
grab  'n'  smash  him  good.  To  the  top  of  one  of 
'em  he  goes  and  Swoosh-sh ! — down  and  under 
he's  slammed.  Up  he  comes  and  there's  another 
Swoosh !  and  down  and  under  again  he  goes. 
And  two  more.  There's  gobs  all  lined  up  by  our 
rail  to  go  over  after  him,  but  before  any  more 
seas  can  get  him  he's  got  his  fingers  hooked  into 
a  crack  in  the  box  Mr.  Nugent's  hanging  to,  and 
what  Bingo  hooks  his  fingers  into  don't  easy  get 
away.  The  next  line  comes  he  grabs  flying  and 
makes  it  fast  around  Mr.  Nugent,  and  about  forty 
gobs  haul  'em  both  aboard. 

Mr.  Nugent  passes  out — not  dead,  just  all  in — 
when  he  hits  the  deck. 

The  Exec  leads  Bingo  into  the  ward  room  for  the 
doctor  to  make  sure  he's  all  right.  And  Bingo  is 
standing  there  with  one  arm  around  a  stanchion 
so  the  ship's  roll  won't  upset  him.  Arid  while  he's 
standing  there  all  in  like,  we  see  him  slip  one  hand 

182 


Wimmin  V  Girls 

up  toward  his  left  breast,  and  feel  around  inside 
his  life  vest — like  he's  trying  to  grab  something; 
and  then  he  goes  scared  looking,  and  out  comes  his 
hand  with  his  fingers  all  clinched. 

"His  heart!"  says  the  doctor,  and  jumps  for 
him,  and  the  Exec  jumps  too. 

"Lookit!"  says  Bingo,  his  voice  'most  all  gone 
and  loosening  his  fingers.  "Lookit,  sir !  Me  last 
pack  o'  cigarettes,  and  they  all  soaked !"  And 
he  kinda  sidesteps  up  to  the  Exec,  saying:  "Yuh 
haven't  got  a  spare  dry  one,  have  yuh,  sir?"  says 
Bingo. 

Next  morning  Bingo's  around  deck  looking 
pretty  fine,  and  the  Exec  flags  him,  saying: 
"White,  did  you  think  of  your  girl  at  all  when  you 
went  over  after  Mr.  Nugent  last  night?" 

"O  yes,  sir,"  says  Bingo.  "And  after  I'd  been 
hoisted  a  coupla  times  to  the  sky  by  those  high 
roller  boys,  I  find  myself  thinking:  'Well,  do  I 
get  away  with  this  or  don't  I  ? '  and  thinking  of 
her." 

"Suppose  you  hadn't  got  away  with  it?" 

"If  I  "hadn't,  sir?  Well,  she's  a  great  one  for 
wantin'  to  get  letters  about  anything  happens 
over  here,  and  if  I  hadn't  got  away  with  it — why 
sir,  she'd  be  out  a  coupla  pages  o'  good  readin' !" 

Bimeby  old  Masters  comes  along,  and  the  Exec 
don't  have  to  fan  him  to  start  him  up.  He  drifts 

183 


Hiker  Joy 

in  himself,  saying:  "You  were  speakin'  yester- 
day morning,  sir,  of  the  chances  men  take — or 
they  don't  take — on  account  of  some  woman  or 
other.  Well,  sir,  there  was  a  wife  I  had  and  I've 
seen  the  time  when  I  think  I  could've  been  al- 
most a  hero — led  one  of  those  forlorn  hopes  al- 
most, and  why  ?  Why,  for  no  more  than  to  hope 
to  live  through  it  and  come  back  to  her  arms 
a  hero,  yes  sir,  and  reward  enough  that  would  be 
for  me." 

"Which  one  was  that  ?"  ast  the  Exec. 

"The  first  wife,  sir.  I  was  young  then  and  she 
was  younger.  But  she  died.  And  not  so  young 
nor  so  innocent,  the  next  one.  And  I  saw  the  time 
with  her  when  I  think  I  would  take  the  same 
chances  and  why  ?  Why,  for  no  more  than  to  be 
brought  back  to  her  arms  a  corpse — that's  all  the 
reward  I'd  ask — to  give  her  something  to  worry 
over  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  Though  I  know  now 
it  would  take  more  than  that  to  worry  her." 

"As  for  the  one  I  got  now !  'I'm  your  pay  en- 
velope an'  that's  all  you  care  for  me,'  was  what  I 
said  to  her  leaving  home !  And  when  we're  in 
that  little  boat  last  night  wondering  how  long  we 
all  had  to  live,  I  said  to  myself:  'If  I  go  now  she 
will  get  a  fine  pension  out  of  it.'  But  by  an'  by 
it  came  to  me  that  after  all  there  might  be  a  word 
or  two  to  say  that  I  never  thought  of  for  her  side 

184 


Wimmin  'n'  Girls 

of  it.  And  thinkin'  that  I  said:  'Good  luck  to 
you!  and  whatever  pension  you  get  out  of 
this  night's  work!' 5 

All  this  time  Mr.  Nugent's  been  sleeping  in 
about  the  only  place  in  the  ship  they  hadn't 
stowed  some  shipwrecked  guy  in — on  the  chart 
room  transom — and  bimeby  he  wakes  up  and  when 
he  does  and  rolls  his  face  inboard,  he  says  to  the 
Exec:  "Hi  there!  what  time  you  going  to  get  us 
into  port  ?" 

And  the  Exec  has  a  peek  at  his  chart  and  says: 
"Oh,  not  so  long  now.  But  say,  Nujie,  what  were 
you  thinking  of  when  you  were  bouncing  around 
on  that  dry  goods  box  or  whatever  it  was  last 
night?" 

"I  guess  I  was  too  busy  hanging  on  to  be 
thinking  of  anything  else,"  says  Mr.  Nugent. 

"What !    You  never  thought  of  the  wife  ?" 

"Oh,  sure,  but  that's  not  thinking — to  have 
her  in  mind.  But  you  know  there's  been  talk  of 
not  allowing  the  wives  of  officers  to  stay  on  this 
side  with  us  ?  Well,  when  I  saw  that  fine,  big 
ship  going  down  under  me,  when  I  realized  that 
she  was  surely  gone,  I  said  to  myself:  If  I  could 
only  have  brought  you  into  port  perhaps  those 
indoor  admirals  who  are  running  the  show  mightn't 
be  in  a  hurry  to  send  Margie  back  home  when 
they  find  out  where  she  is.  But  never  mind  that 


Hiker  Joy 

now  and  listen.  Take  a  short  cut  home,  will 
you  ?  And  look !  I'd  like  to  be  having  an  eye 
out  for  a  towel  waving  from  a  window  on  the  hill 
—call  me  ten  minutes  before  we  hit  that  barrage, 
will  you  ?"  And  the  Exec  says  all  right  and  Mr. 
Nugent  rolls  his  face  outward  and  goes  off  to 
sleep  again. 

The  Exec  keeps  working  away  on  his  chart, 
but  looking  like  he's  thinking  of  more  than  where 
the  ship  is.  Bimeby  he  steps  over  and  has  a  peek 
through  the  forward  air-port  and  comes  back 
saying:  "What  do  you  think,  Hiker,  of  men  like 
Lieutenant  Nugent  and  your  friend  Bingo  and 
old  man  Masters  falling  for  women  and  girls  as 
easy  as  they  do  ?" 

"What  do  I  know  'bout  wimmin  'n'  girls?"  I 
says.  "But  if  it  don't  make  'em  lay  off  their 
job,  why  not  ?" 

And  bimeby  he  says:  "That's  so,  why  not?" 
Then  he  has  another  peek  through  the  air-port 
an'  comes  back,  saying:  "The  barrage  ahead- 
call  Mr.  Nugent." 


1 86 


The  North  Sea  Men 

THIS  craft  (this  is  Bill)  we  bumped  into  out 
the  fog  looked  to  be  a  hundred  years  old, 
and  half  that  time  it  must  have  been  since  she'd 
had  a  cleaning  up  or  a  coat  of  paint.  She  smelled 
of  coats  and  coats  of  tar  outside,  and  from  inside 
of  her  when  we  climbed  aboard  came  some  more 
fine  smells. 

She  was  a  fishing  smack,  the  Venus>  and  her 
skipper  was  a  short,  stout-built  party  in  a  navy- 
blue  jersey  with  a  black,  oily  silk  handkerchief 
tucked  into  the  neck  of  it;  and  he  had  oily-looking 
trousers  tucked  into  short,  black,  oily-looking 
jack-boots,  and  he  had  black  oily-looking  hair 
sticking  out  from  under  the  edges  of  his  flat 
black  cap,  and  a  stiff  black  whisker  sticking  out 
from  his  jaw,  and  between  the  cap  and  the  jaw 
was  a  bold  nose  and  bold  eyes.  A  bold-looking 
man  altogether,  he  was. 

I'm  wondering  where  he's  going  to  stow  us. 
Lefty  and  me — we're  tough  enough,  but  Mr.  Rush 
isn't  feeling  too  lively  and  worrying  about  what's 
happened  his  niece  besides;  but  there's  a  ladder 
leading  down  into  a  dark-looking  place  aft,  and  I 


Hiker  Joy 

look  at  it  and  then  at  the  skipper  and  he  gets 
what  I  mean,  and  leads  the  way  down  the  ladder. 

When  we're  below,  Mr.  Rush  has  a  peek  all 
around,  saying:  "Like  unto  the  Ark  of  Scrip- 
ture she  is,  pitched  within  and  without." 

"Yeah,"  I  thinks;  "and  if  this  place  is  a  sample 
she  is  also  like  unto  the  Scriptural  Ark  in  being 
cut  up  into  little  rooms." 

The  little  room  was  the  cabin,  and  to  both  sides 
of  it  were  bunks  and  every  bunk  closed  in  except 
for  a  little  square  hole  to  crawl  in  by.  And 
jammed  in  wherever  there  was  a  spot  or  a  place 
to  hang  or  dump  a  thing  at  all  was  all  the  wear- 
ing stuff  they  owned  except  what  they  had  on 
them,  I  guess — oil  slickers,  sou'westers,  sea  boots, 
jerseys,  storm  coats,  and  the  like  of  that.  And 
mixed  in  and  around  with  them  was  all  the  spare 
gear  of  the  vessel,  it  looked  like — blocks,  ropes- 
ends,  reefing  tackle  and  so  on.  And  sticking  up 
through  the  middle  of  the  floor  was  the  butt  of 
a  mizzenmast.  And  built  into  the  forward  bulk- 
head was  a  fireplace  with  some  coals  still  showing 
signs  of  life,  and  atop  of  the  live  coals  was  a  fry- 
ing pan  with  some  grease  smoking  itself  to  death 
in  it,  and  through  a  busted  plank  in  the  bulkhead 
was  coming  the  smell  of  pickled  herring.  And 
there  was  a  nother  fine  smell — bilge  water. 

"Stuffy,  isn't  it?"  whispers  Mr.  Rush,  "and 
188 


The  North  Sea  Men 

rather  dark  in  there  ?"  meaning  the  bunk  the 
skipper  points  out  to  him  to  roll  into  if  he's  tired, 
and  I  says:  "Yeah,  stuffy  an'  dark  both,  but 
it's  got  a  little  somethin'  on  a  nopen  boat  in  the 
middle  o'  the  yocean  and  nothin'  to  eat  and  no- 
where special  to  go." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  finding  fault,"  says  Mr.  Rush. 
"Don't  take  me  too  literally.  I'm  always  mak- 
ing mental  notes  for  future  reference."  And 
shoves  the  little  bag  that  he's  never  let  go  of 
through  the  hole  into  the  bunk,  and  after  he's 
got  the  bag  planted  safe  inside  he  shoves  in  his 
head  after  the  bag,  and  squeezes  in  his  shoulders 
after  his  head,  and  then  wiggles  'n'  kicks  in  his 
back  and  legs  and  his  feet.  More  words  come 
from  him  when  he's  safe  inside  the  bunk,  but  by 
and  by  he's  quiet. 

Below  the  bunks  each  side  is  a  locker  sticking 
out  and  Lefty  and  me  and  the  skipper  are  sitting 
on  one  of  them  when  down  comes  an  old  scout 
who's  a  twin  to  the  skipper  in  looks.  By  way  of 
letting  us  know  who  he  is  the  skipper  opens  up 
with: 

"Nine  an'  twenty  year  us  ha'  sailed  t'gither,  an' 
nine  an'  twenty  year  mair  us  '11  sail,  shan't  us, 
Auld  Jim?" 

"Aye,  Frankie  lad,  an'  Lord  pleases  to  keep  us 
off  bottom,"  says  Auld  Jim. 

189 


Hiker  Joy 

"O  aye,  an'  Lord  pleases,"  says  the  skipper; 
and  they  go  on  like  that  with  Lefty  V  me  strain- 
ing our  ears  to  get  what  they're  saying,  and  argu- 
ing are  they  some  kind  of  Scotchmen,  which  is 
what  I  think,  or  are  they  some  kind  of  English 
like  a  Yorkshireman,  which  is  what  Lefty  thinks. 
We  don't  agree  but  I  say:  "Anyway  they're 
Allies — so  let  'em  jaw.  I  wonder  when  do  we 
eat?" 

Maybe  we  look  what  we're  thinking,  or  maybe 
it's  their  way  of  doing  things  without  hurrying, 
but  by  and  by  a  big  kind  of  a  fat,  big  fuhla  they 
call  Jarge  comes  down  and  digs  some  soft  coal 
out  from  inside  one  of  the  lockers  and  heaves  it 
onto  the  half  dead  fire  in  the  grate,  and  then 
he  chucks  some  fresh  grease  into  the  frying  pan, 
and  pretty  soon  the  soft  coal  is  smoking  fine  and 
the  grease  is  smoking  fine,  and  the  smell  of  old 
pickled  herring  is  coming  in  waves  through  the 
busted  bulkhead.  And  there  is  a  fine  smell  of 
bilge  water  too. 

"Forty  years,  I'll  bet,  since  her  bilge's  been 
pumped  out,"  I  whispers  to  Lefty. 

"I  was  just  thinkin'  a  hundred,"  says  Lefty. 

We  hear  some  gurgling  sounds  coming  from  the 
bunk  where  Mr.  Rush  is  stowed  away,  and  the 
skipper  begins  to  worry  about  the  gentleman — is 
he  sick  ? 

190 


The  North  Sea  Men 

"Sick  no,"  says  Lefty.  "He's  ony  makin* 
more  mental  notes." 

Jarge  and  Auld  Jim  have  oil-smocks  to  their 
knees  which  now  they  throw  off  to  get  more  ac- 
tion for  their  cooking,  and  they  get  some  plates 
and  cups  and  saucers  and  spread  them  around 
where  they  can  find  any  square  inch  of  space, 
which  means  there's  a  traffic  jam  on  the  floor, 
with  all  of  us  having  to  be  careful  where  we  plant 
our  feet.  Then  they  haul  out  each  of  them  tin 
boxes  from  their  bunks  and  take  out  some  bread. 

"An*  noo  us  '11  ha'  bit  o'  fried  whitin',  a  rare 
bit,"  says  the  skipper.  And  the  whiting  was  all 
right  when  it  came,  and  so  was  the  bread  and  tea, 
ony  when  Lefty  was  to  England  on  his  last  trip 
tea  was  pretty  scarce,  and  he  wants  to  know 
where  they  grabbed  off  theirs. 

And  they  tell  us  how  there'd  been  a  fine  big 
ship  torpedoed  inshore  and  how  before  the  crown 
agents  could  reach  her  the  patrols  and  fishermen 
handy  helped  themselves  to  a  few  tid-bits — tea, 
bacon,  sugar,  butter,  and  so  on. 

Auld  Jim  heaves  some  more  soft  coal  onto  the 
fire  and  when  he  does  the  place  begins  to  fill  up 
with  smoke,  meaning  the  draft  is  being  monkeyed 
with  somewheres. 

"It'll  be  foot  o'  the  big  sail  jibin'  an'  knockin' 
ower  the  stove  pipe  onto  deck,  iss,"  says  Auld 

191 


Hiker  Joy 

Jim,  and  tells  Jarge  who's  nearest  the  ladder  to 
yell  to  a  boy  Howie  who  is  standing  by  the  tiller 
to  put  the  stove  pipe  back  on,  which  Jarge  does, 
and  then  looking  like  a  guy  who  thinks  he  ought 
to  have  some  reward -for  himself,  he  lifts  a  bottle 
of  Scotch  out  of  his  tin  box  and  pours  himself 
out  about  four  fingers  of  it  into  his  tea  cup. 
"For  ma  appetite,"  he  says  to  Lefty  and  me  and 
throws  it  into  himself  and  puts  the  bottle  back 
in  the  box. 

"Jarge  is  teetotal,  ar'nt  'ee,  Jarge  ?"  says  the 
skipper. 

"O  aye,"  says  Jarge. 

"Dijjer  hear  the  big  loafer?"  whispers  Lefty, 
and  busts  out  to  Jarge  with:  "Where're  you  a 
teetotaller  after  that  wallop  o'  booze  yuh  just 
hove  down  yer  throat  ? " 

"Aw'm  teetotal  on  ale,"  says  Jarge.  "Pubs 
sell  ale,  an*  ar'  n't  been  in  pub  for  twenty  year." 

"An*  us  ar'nt  been  away  from  pub  for  twenty 
hours  ashoor,  ha'  us,  Auld  Jim  ? "  says  the  skipper. 

"Francis,  Francis,  and  thou  Jim,  think  o'  th' 
poonds  thee'd  ha'  in  bank  if  thee  stayed  clear  o' 
pubs !"  says  Jarge. 

"Hoo  mony  poonds  have  'ee  in  bank,  Jarge?" 
says  Jim. 

"Why,  th'  ootrageous  roysterer,"  says  Jarge, 
"ha'nt  aw  reared  a  moost  expansive  family  ?  Aw 

192 


The  North  Sea  Men 

'm  'shamed  o'  thee  baith.  An'  thou  wonders, 
Francis,  th'  boy  Howie  smooks  cigaretts.  'Th' 
sins  o'  the  faither,'  says  Bible,  'mun  be  veesited 
on  children/  iss." 

"What  do  Bible  say  aboot  tha  greedy  sins  o' 
they  as  make  fast  to  teakittle  ?  If  th'art  done 
preaching  tha  great  hulk,  will  'ee  cast  loose  th' 
teakittle  ? "  yells  Auld  Jim. 

"Aw  forgot  teakittle,"  says  the  big  guy  and 
passes  it  over,  and  the  skipper  pours  Lefty  and 
me  another  hot  cup  of  it,  and  we  turn  in  on  the 
lockers  for  a  snooze. 

When  I  come  awake  next  time  it's  four  o'clock, 
meaning  the  afternoon,  by  the  smoked-up  little 
clock  that's  nailed  to  the  bulkhead.  I  go  up  on 
deck  where  the  fog  is  gone  and  the  crew  are 
getting  ready  to  fish.  The  skipper  is  at  the  tiller 
nursing  the  vessel's  headway,  while  Jarge  is  pay- 
ing out  a  baited  trawl  line  to  leeward.  When- 
ever the  old  smack  moves  too  fast  Jarge  holds 
up  his  hand  and  the  skipper  luffs  and  checks  her. 
When  Jarge  wants  her  to  come  a  little  faster  he 
holds  up  his  hand  and  the  skipper  eases  her  off 
again.  Whatever  the  skipper's  doing,  when  Jarge 
holds  up  his  hand  he  does  the  other  thing. 

Lefty  is  on  deck  before  me.  "I  been  watching 
for  the  last  coupla  hours,"  says  Lefty.  "A  gang 
of  our  bank  fishermen  'd  have  their  trawls  hove 

193 


Hiker  Joy 

out  an'  hauled  again  while  these  guys  been  gettin' 
ready." 

"Maybe  they  would,"  I  says.  "But  people 
in  old  countries  don't  rush  theirselves  to  death 
same's  we  do.  I  think  they're  doin'  pretty  well 
to  be  out  here  if  they  never  fished  a  tall,  with  the 
U-boats  working  the  way  they  been  doin'." 

"Maybe  that's  so  too,"  says  Lefty. 

Auld  Jim  is  feeding  the  baited  line  to  Jarge 
and  the  boy  Howie  is  helping  Jim  by  every  once 
in  a  while  lashing  a  black-tarred  sheep's  bladder 
onto  the  long  line  for  a  buoy. 

When  it  comes  supper  time  I  call  Mr.  Rush, 
and  "P-yeu!"  he  says,  meaning  the  smells  I  sup- 
pose, or  maybe  it's  the  sweat  rolling  in  drops  off 
his  brow. 

The  skipper  spears  something  that's  been  fry- 
ing in  the  pan,  saying:  "Rare  bit  for  'ee,"  to 
Mr.  Rush.  "Pulled  'im  off  hook  to  save  special 
for  'ee.  Fat  he  war  an'  shinin'  like  new  shillin' 
i'  th'  sun." 

"Fish  is  it  ?"  says  Mr.  Rush. 

"O  aye" — the  skipper  holds  it  up  on  the  end 
of  a  fork.  "An'  Auld  Frank  cuts  'im  oop  an' 
us  towed  'im  astarn  for  ten  hours,  iss." 

"I  never  cared  much  for  fish,"  whispers  Mr. 
Rush. 

"A  bit  o'  skate — lovely,  fat  skate,"  says  the 
skipper. 

194 


The  North  Sea  Men 

"Skate?"  says  Mr.  Rush  kind  of  weak-like, 
meaning  he'd  as  soon  eat  a  dog  as  a  skate.  But 
he's  game.  "Thank  you,"  he  says,  "that  was 
very  nice  of  you." 

"Very  nice,  very  nice,"  he's  still  saying  and 
eating  it  when  up  the  ladder  he  goes  on  the  run. 
Lefty  and  me  go  after  him.  And  Lefty  holds  up 
one  side  of  his  head  and  me  the  other  while  he 
heaves  up  what  he  tried  to  eat  of  the  skate,  and 
whatever  else  been  in  his  stomach  for  the  last 
week  or  so,  I  guess. 

Mr.  Rush  comes  below  and  they  get  busy  mak- 
ing him  some  toast.  And  a  fine  job  it  was  to 
keep  it  jumping  on  the  short  forks  from  one  hand 
to  the  other  with  their  knuckles  scorching.  Good 
men — that's  what  they  were;  and  Mr.  Rush 
hangs  onto  the  toast  and  a  cup  of  tea  when  he 
gets  it  down  and  wiggles  into  his  bunk  again. 

They  go  up  on  deck  again,  where  they  lift  out 
about  ten  feet  of  her  rail  amidships  and  they  take 
a  heavy  clinker-built  boat  they  call  a  cobble, 
Lefty  and  me  helping,  and  when  the  sea  heaves 
up  we  all  shove  her  bow  out  till  the  chop  gets 
it  and  with  Howie  in  her  bow  and  Jim  in  her 
waist  the  rest  of  us  give  her  the  shove  overboard 
with  big  Jarge  hanging  on  like  he  didn't  know 
was  he  inboard  or  outboard  over  her  stern. 

They  begin  to  haul  in  their  lines,  Jarge  doing 
the  hauling  over  a  roller  on  the  quarter  gunnel 

195 


Hiker  Joy 

of  the  cobble.  Jim  dressing  them  and  the  boy 
Howie  with  a  pair  of  oars  keeping  her  head  to  the 
tide. 

If  only  there  wasn't  a  great  war  going  on  some- 
wheres,  it  would  look  like  the  quiet  life  and  suit 
Lefty  and  me  fine,  and  when  they're  back  aboard 
I  asked  them  did  the  U-boats  ever  come  near 
them;  and  when  I  did  the  boy  Howie  spoke  up 
saying:  "They  come  near  enough  one  time, 
didn't  they  faither?"  And  faither  said:  "O 
aye."  And  Jim  and  Jarge  spoke  up  and  said: 
"O  aye,  near  enou." 

Howie's  language  isn't  so  straining  to  our  ears 
and  brain  as  the  talk  of  the  others,  and  so  I  ask 
him  what's  the  rest  of  the  story,  and  he  tells  us 
how  earlier  in  the  war  when  they  didn't  rate  the 
U-boats  so  high,  one  of  them  breaks  water  right 
among  the  fishing  fleet,  the  Venus  being  one,  and 
rounds  up  fourteen  smacks.  And  the  crews  of 
thirteen  he  puts  aboard  the  Venus  and  tells  her 
to  hurry  home. 

"An'  bombin'  and  sinkin'  the  poor  little  smacks 
they  was — a  sad  sight  as  we're  sailin'  off,"  says 
Howie. 

"She  came  again,  on  our  very  next  voyage  out, 
the  same  U-boat,  with  the  same  captain  and  runs 
alongside  us  and  helps  himself  to  a  mess  o'  fish. 
'I  have  no  English  money  with  me  to-day,  but  I 

196 


The  North  Sea  Men 

will  be  back  to  pay  you  later/  he  says — in  good 
English  as  ever  I've  hear  he  says  it.  And  he 
comes  back  two  days  later,  runs  alongside  and 
heaves  a  little  bag  onto  our  deck,  and  he  says: 
'There's  for  the  fish.'  And  when  faither  opened 
the  bag  there's  the  pay  in  bright  English  silver 
for  what  fish  he  took." 

"Why  dy  s'pose  he  didn't  sink  yuh?"  says 
Lefty. 

"Who  knows?"  says  Howie.  "But  seemed  to 
me  he  liked  faither's  and  Uncle  Jarge  and  Auld 
Jim's  looks — friendly  like  he  was. 

"We  made  fun  o'  the  U-boats  one  time,"  says 
Howie,  "but  we  learned  better." 

"Aye,"  says  Auld  Jim.  "Bold  men,  bold 
craft,  they  be." 

"Wicked  men,"  says  Jarge,  and  then  like  he's 
meditating — "but  paid  fair  market  price,  iss,  for 
oor  fish." 

"An'  what  're  your  people  doin'  to  get  that 
fuhla?"Iasked. 

"Oh,  there  be  ways,"  says  Howie,  and  next 
day  along  comes  a  smack  with  brick  red  sails, 
wide  bow  and  stern,  and  a  sliding  bowsprit, 
a  sister  ship  to  the  Venus  in  looks,  and  I  says  so 
to  the  skipper. 

"Ootside  iss,  but  inside  nae,"  says  the  skipper. 

She  came  alongside  and  Mr.  Rush  telling  them 
197 


Hiker  Joy 

who  he  is  and  having  the  papers  to  prove  it,  they 
talk  to  him  and  by  and  by  let  us  all  go  aboard 
her.  She's  yawl-rigged,  same  as  the  Venus  to 
sail,  but  she  has  an  engine  to  drive  her  when  there's 
no  wind.  She  had  what  looked  like  a  regular 
fishing  crew  with  fishing  gear — cobble  and  all, 
but  her  fishing  crew  turned  out  to  be  a  special 
Royal  Navy  gun  crew,  and  when  they  threw  off 
her  hatches  instead  of  a  hold  for  fish  there  was  a 
fine  young  three-inch  disappearing  gun.  All 
kinds  of  strange  gadgets  she  had.  What  looked 
like  an  oil  lamp  in  her  cabin  was  an  electric  light 
when  we  tried  it;  and  radio  wires  ran  up  through 
the  middle  of  her  halyards  and  she  carried  a 
wireless,  though  we  couldn't  see  any  wireless  gear 
to  show  for  it  aloft. 

She  was  what  they  call  a  mystery  ship,  and  her 
job  was  to  stick  around  near  old  smacks  like  the 
Venus  hoping  that  maybe  another  U-boat  or 
the  same  one  would  pop  up  and  pass  the  time  of 
day,  or  come  alongside  and  help  herself  to  a  mess 
of  fish.  And  if  one  did—  - ! 

Lefty  and  me  would  like  to  Ve  stayed  aboard 
her,  but  nothing  doing  on  that;  and  so  all  we  could 
do  for  the  next  three  days  was  to  watch  her  loaf- 
ing around.  We  didn't  see  her  do  anything  to  any 
U-boats,  but  one  day  she  sends  out  a  radio  for 
Mr.  Rush  and  by  and  by  gets  an  answer  that  some 


The  North  Sea  Men 

of  the  horse-boat's  people  were  picked  up,  a  young 
woman  among  them,  meaning  of  course  that  his 
niece  was  safe. 

That  same  evening  the  Venus  is  ready  to  leave 
for  port,  and  when  she  is  Lefty  turns  in  and 
so  does  Mr.  Rush.  But  I  don't  want  to  go  to 
sleep;  and  when  Jarge  comes  up  for  his  watch 
I  stay  up  on  deck  with  him;  and  Jarge  takes  the 
tiller  and  looks  over  the  quarter  saying: 

"She'll  be  daein'  sax  knots  for  herself  noo, 
aw  'm  thinkin';"  says  Jarge,  looking  up  at  the 
sails  and  all  around;  and  everything  looking  all 
right  he  fills  his  pipe. 

"She  do  move  gentle-like,  th'  auld  smack,  in 
a  breeze  o'  this  kind,"  says  Jarge.  "But  in  a 
blaw  she's  aye  wuss  nor  ony  steam  trawler,  O 
aye."  And  looks  after  the  smoke  he's  puffing 
from  his  pipe  to  see  can  he  see  where  the  little 
breeze  is  taking  it.  He  can't  see  and  so  he  takes 
notice  of  the  course. 

"'Alf  p'int  nearer  th'  wind  '11  be  better.  West 
quowter  soothe,  nae — but  west  quowter  nowthe, 
iss,"  he  says  when  he's  studied  that  out,  and  shifts 
her  course  the  half  point.  Next,  he  has  a  peek 
at  the  trim  of  the  sails;  and  has  to  say  a  word 
about  them:  "Francis  is  aye  ower  loose  wi' 
sheets.  Francis  is  aye  ower  loose  wi'  mony 
things — wi'  his  money  an'  his  baccy  an'  his  ale 

199 


Hiker  Joy 

ashoor.  It  be  chaktereestic  o'  Francis  to  sail 
wi'  free  sheet,  iss.  Aw  mun  takj  in  sheets," 
and  he  takes  the  sheets  in,  me  helping. 

It  was  a  quiet  night  with  a  quiet  tide  rippling 
past  our  quarter  and  quiet  little  eddies  bubbling 
in  our  wake.  It  was  the  kind  of  a  night  that  men 
show  themselves  friendly-like  and  tell  what's 
inside  of  them  if  there's  any  sympathetic  party 
standing  by  to  listen;  and  sitting  on  his  bait 
boxes  beside  the  tiller,  and  with  eyes  shifting  from 
his  compass  to  his  sails,  and  not  forgetting  any 
time  to  keep  his  pipe  going — sitting  and  looking 
so  Jarge  begins  to  talk: 

"Aw  was  yince  a  wild  young  blade  like  Francis 
ma'sel',  iss.  Five  pund,  aye  an'  five  guineas  like 
any  steam  trawler  master  for  suit  o'  clothes. 
But  aw  took  releegion  an'  marrit  t'gither.  Don't 
allus  gae  t'gither,  nae,  but  aw  did,  an'  aw  been 
deeferent  mon  since,  iss." 

He  has  a  lot  more  to  say  about  the  missis.  It 
was  the  missis  knitted  the  fine  guernseys  and  the 
grand  underwear  he  had  on.  I  had  to  feel  of 
them  to  see  how  grand  they  were.  No  goods  like 
'em  in  the  shops,  nae.  And  he  was  sure  right  in 
that. 

"The  missis,"  says  Jarge,  "allus  ready  agin 
ma  return.  An'  hoo  her  do  look  arter  the  bairns  ! 
On  Soondays  when  aw  'm  to  hame — aw  n't  ben 

200 


The  North  Sea  Men 

hame  for  two  months  noo — th'  tarrible  war  it 
be ! — but  please  Lord  aw  '11  be  hame  this  night 
fortnight,  iss.  But  on  Soondays  when  we  strolls 
int'  th'  country  wi'  th'  bairns,  thj  missis  an' 
mysel',  'tis  gran' !  There's  th'  hedges  by  th' 
roadside,  th'  medders,  th'  coos,  th'  hills  wi'  th' 
sun  on  'em,  th'  little  brooks — tha  couldst  no 
eemagine  it,  an'  th'  smell  o'  it  all — O  but  it's  rare, 
rare — an'  coomin'  hame  i'  th'  evenin'  wi'  th' 
church  bells !  O  gran',  gran'  it  be  on  Soonday 
evenin',  iss.  An'  this  verra  moment  th'  verra 
same  bells  will  be  chimin'  in  oor  place.  If  so  be 
'twas  ma  smack  this  old  hulk  under  us — do  th' 
knaw  what  aw  'd  dae  ?  Aw'd  put  her  straight 
for  hame,  iss.  An'  by  t'morry  night  at  latest  aw'd 
be  hame  wi'  th'  missis  an'  th'  bairns  playin'  by 
th'  door.  There's  nowt  else  like  it — th'  bairns 
an'  th'  missis  by  th'  door  on  Soonday  evenin' 
and  the  bairns  climbin'  ower  me  an'  pullin'  th' 
beard  o'  me,  an'  me  smookin'  pipe.  An'  th' 
neighbor's  stoop  wi'  his  missis  an'  his  bairns  ower 
the  way,  iss." 

He  has  a  peek  around  the  sea  and  by  and  by 
he's  going  again:  "Look  at  yan  moon!  See 
her  ower  th'  jib  when  th'  auld  smack  dips  ? 
What  think  th'  bairns  say  aboot  th'  moon  ?  Mis- 
sis towld  'em  yince,  puir  bairns,  an'  they  niver 
forgot,  nae.  'Whativer  becomes  o'  th'  moon 

201 


Hiker  Joy 

when  us  sees  nowt  o'  it — when  it  gaes  awa', 
mither?'  An'  the  missis  says:  'They  cut  it 
into  little  shiny  stars ! '  Aye,  th'  missis  tells  'em 
an'  th'  bairns,  an'  the  puir,  puir  bairns  believes, 
iss.  Same  moon  yan.  Soonday  night  this  an' 
maybe  her's  tellin'  'em  summat  like  it  this  verra 
minute. 

"The  bairns  an'  missis — 'tis  they  haulds  us  to 
th'  fishin'  in  th'  gale  an'  cauld.  Tis  tarrible 
war  noo  an'  no  gaein'  far  off-shoor,  nae.  But 
afore  th'  war — ah-h !  th'  black  nights  aw  feared 
for  th'  bairns  an'  missis !  Th'  Octowber  night 
when  three  an'  thirty  men  o'  Fylie  never  coomed 
hame !  Aw  was  acquainted  wi'  fower  an'  twenty 
o'  them  masel' — fower  an'  twenty  men  o'  Fylie  aw 
knawed  masel'  an'  gone  to  bottom  in  single  gale, 
iss.  Francis  an'  Auld  Jim  be  twa  gran'  hands  for 
a'  their  free  ways  when  it  cooms  t'  blaw,  an'  three 
on  us  an'  twa  men  o'  Wisby  war  on  Dogger 
Bank  in  auld  Venus  that  night — an'  for  three 
nights  arter.  Wind  an'  sea — frightful,  frightful ! 
Na  dry  bread  or  hot  tea  did  us  see  for  fower  days 
an'  fower  nights,  nae.  Wet  clothes,  wet  cabin, 
aye,  th'  beds  in  oor  verra  bunks  wet — an'  three 
an'  thirty  gade  men  oot  o'  Fylie  garn  when  us 
coomed  hame.  Aw  tell  'ee  on  night  like  this — 
fine  an'  starry  an'  fine  moon — men  should  na 
forget  th'  bad  nights.  Na  sayin'  when  oor  time 
'11  coom — nae." 

202 


The  North  Sea  Men 

And  listening  to  him  I  said  to  myself:  "You 
fat  loafer,  you  helped  yourself  from  a  quart  of 
Scotch  and  never  asked  the  rest  of  us  had  we  a 
mouth  on  us !  But  let  that  go — you're  all  right 
at  that." 

And  then  Jarge  has  a  peek  into  the  cabin  at 
the  clock  and  pretty  soon  he  calls  Auld  Jim  and 
Jim  comes  up  and  takes  the  tiller  from  Jarge. 
And  the  next  thing  Jim  does  is  to  heave  the  bait 
boxes  into  the  waist  and  next  to  take  a  peek  at 
the  compass. 

"West  an*  quowter  sooth  she  be,"  says  Jarge. 

"An'  why  west  an'  quowter  sooth?"  says  Jim. 

"Ma  joodgment." 

"Tha  joodgment  ?  Thou  'rt  th'  leader  amang 
us  in  releegion  but  leave  th'  sailin'  o'  th'  auld 
Venus  t'  Auld  Frank  an*  tha  hope  o'  heaven 
will  be  gude  as  noo  an*  the  missis  maybe  na  so 
like  some  day  t'  die  a  widdy !  Tha  joodgment ! 
Tak'  tha  joodgment  to  bed  with  'ee,  will  'ee  ?" 

And  Jarge  does,  I  guess.  Anyway  he  goes 
below. 

"West  an5  quowter  south,  nae,  but  west  an' 
quowter  nowthe,  iss."  And  back  to  her  old 
course  he  puts  the  smack.  "Save  th'  verra  wind 
will  Jarge.  A  gude  man  is  Jarge  but  savin'  all 
for  th'  missis  an'  family.  Get  marrit,  get  marrit, 
Jarge  is  allus  sayin'  t'  me.  'An'  arter  that — 
what  will  'ee  promise  arter  that  ?'  aw  say.  Jarge 

203 


Hiker  Joy 

says  nowt.  But  Francis  ben  marrit  an'  what  do 
Francis  say  ?  'Get  marrit  if  th'  feels  that  way, 
but  mind  'ee  this/  says  Francis:  'mind  'ee,  Auld 
Jim,  tha  '11  never  agen  hae  th'  oon  way. ' ' 

And  standing  with  one  hand  curved  around  the 
tiller  handle  and  the  other  hand  stuck  up  under 
his  jersey,  Auld  Jim  stamps  his  boot-heels  on  the 
deck  and  his  sou'wester  bobbing  up  and  down 
while  he  stands,  he  whistles  to  leeward  and  begins 
to  sing  little  too-roo-roo  and  too-roo-rays  songs 
to  himself. 

But  it  was  too  fine  a  night.  Auld  Jim  has  to 
quit  the  too-roo-roo  lullabies  and  bust  into  a  real 
song,  singing  easy  at  first,  but  strong  at  the  end. 

"An*  she  sets  out  yince  mair  to  cry, 
An*  I  yince  mair  do  kiss  good-by — 
'Goodby,  goodby,  an*  mind  'ee,  sweet, 
While  aw'm  awye  wi  tha  Nowthe  Sea  fleet!' 

An*  aw  kissed  my  lass,  a  Fylie  lass, 
Aw  kissed  my  lass  a  sweet  good  by," 

winds  up  Auld  Jim. 

The  skipper  butts  his  shoulders  above  the  cabin 
companionway.  "Lasses  an'  kisses — rare  song 
that!"  says  the  skipper  and  has  a  whiff  then  of 
the  air.  "It  be  comin'  t'  breeze,  Auld  Jim?" 

"Aye,  wind  in  plenty  afore  th'  auld  Venus 
butts  her  nose  past  light-ship,"  says  Auld  Jim. 

204 


The  North  Sea  Men 

"Gude!     Get  'ee  below,  Jim,  an*  ha*  mug  o* 
tea  arter  th'  watch  an'  bit  o'  sleep  agen  th'  day  t' 


come." 


And  Jim  goes  below,  me  with  him,  and  we  have 
a  fine  cup  of  tea,  and  Jim  turns  in  and  I  go  up 
on  deck  again  where  the  skipper  is  peeking  up  at 
the  sails  and  saying: 

"Aw  shan't  ask  'ee  did  Auld  Jim  hae  owt  t' 
do  with  sheets  because  aw  knaws.  Sheets  might 
be  free  as  wind  or  close  as  paint  for  a*  Auld  Jim 
cares.  But  Jarge !  Teetotaller  is  Jarge,  savin* 
of  ale,  iss,  an'  savin'  o'  th'  wind  too — savin'  of 
all  things,  iss.  There  be  no  abidin'  some  o' 
Jarge  close-hauled  notions.  Will  tha  pay  oot  a 
bit  mair  sheet — a  bit  mair — main  an'  mizzen  mair, 
aye.  Thank  'ee,  thank  'ee,  an'  dom  Jarge  an'  all 
close-hauled  notions." 

It  is  still  a  pretty  fine  sort  of  a  night,  but  not 
so  mild  as  it  was.  The  moon  is  still  there,  but 
coming  and  going  now  behind  clumps  of  clouds. 
The  breeze  is  freshening  and  a  cross-sea  is  begin- 
ning to  slap  little  splashes  of  spray  aboard.  The 
skipper  stands  just  as  Jim  stood,  one  hand  curved 
around  the  handle  of  the  tiller,  the  other  stuck 
up  inside  his  jersey,  and  his  eyes  roaming  for 
what's  going  on  around  and  above  him. 

By  and  by  on  the  clouds  away  ahead  of  us,  I 
see  the  loom  of  a  light.  A  great  signal  light  ashore, 

205 


Hiker  Joy 

the  skipper  said  it  was,  and  a  long  road  to  go  yet. 
And  so  it  was;  but  the  wind  was  beginning  to 
whistle  a  little  through  our  top  gear;  and  the 
cross  sea  was  jumping  and  diving  her  a  little,  and 
to  every  jump  and  dive  she's  splashing  more  and 
more  spray  over  her  low  rail. 

Auld  skipper  stands  there  with  eyes  for  whatever 
the  sky  and  sea  and  air  may  be  holding  for  him, 
and  is  there  any  job  on  earth  where  a  man  comes 
nearer  being  the  whole  works  than  the  man  who 
stands  to  the  wheel  of  a  sailing  vessel  at  sea  ? 
And  men  who've  been  standing  watches  most  of 
their  lives  to  the  wheel  of  sailing  vessels — all  that 
ever  I  met  are  great  fuhlas.  And  this  old  North 
Sea  fisherman  was  a  great  fuhla. 

I  asked  him  did  it  worry  him  ever — the  thought 
of  the  U-boats  ? 

"I  tak'  mair  thought  than  aw  relish  o'  U-boats," 
he  says. 

"Then  why  do  you  stick  to  this  fishin'  ?"  I  says. 

"Shore  folk  mu'  hae  their  fish  an'  who's  to  get 
th'  fish  if  th'  like  o'  us  smacksmen  doon't?"  he 
says. 

It  was  coming  on  to  dawn  then,  and  a  dawn  full 
of  color  after  a  night  watch  at  sea — it's  a  wonderful 
sight.  The  sun  pokes  his  top  rim  above  the 
ocean's  edge  and  a  beam  of  light  all  gold  comes 
shining  over  our  quarter  rail. 

206 


The  North  Sea  Men 

"Gran*  sun  astern  arn't  it?"  says  the  skipper. 
"Red  like  fire  i'  th'  cabin  grate  on  a  cauld  night, 
iss,  but  th*  sky  clear  an'  a'  blue  as  sky  should  be. 
Wind  aye,  an'  mair  comin',  but  glor'ous,  glor'ous. 
Tak'  in  log,  will  'ee,  an'  see  what  says  ?" 

Nine  and  a  half  knots- she  showed  for  the  last 
hour,  which  was  stepping  some  for  her  old  legs, 
but  the  skipper  said  he  saw  her  do  eleven  knots 
once,  and  it  was  not  for  me  to  call  him  a  liar, 
no  more  than  a  young  father  talking  of  his  baby, 
but  it  must  have  been  a  gale  of  wind  and  a  smooth 
sea  when  the  old  Venus  did  eleven  knots.  But 
a  good  old  packet  she  was,  and  taking  us  to  port 
after  a  time  when  some  of  us  doubted  would  we 
ever  see  port  again,  and  whatever  craft  it  is  does 
that,  you  just  got  to  feel  a  little  warm  towards  her. 

"She's  an  old  wonder,"  I  says  to  the  skipper, 
the  both  of  us  watching  her.  The  wind  by  then 
was  blowing  most  half  a  gale,  but  no  mean-acting 
half  a  gale.  Pleasant  and  summer-like  it  was,  with 
the  wind  almost  like  a  kiss  when  it  went  flying  by 
a  fuhla's  cheeks;  but  piling  up  the  little  seas  it 
surely  was,  and  after  piling  them  up  it  was  driving 
'em  aboard,  and  coming  aboard  they  splashed  the 
smack  from  the  tip  of  her  sliding  bowsprit  to  the 
end  of  her  mizzen  boom :  every  inch  of  her  they 
soaked  in  the  old  brine,  rolling  it  off  the  hatch 
combings  and  the  high  rails  to  where  her  old  deck 

207 


Hiker  Joy 

planks  were  worn  and  hollowed  out,  where  they 
stayed — the  only  place  aboard  they  stayed— 
and  made  little  pools  that  lay  shining  in  the 
morning  sun. 

But  no  harm  in  them.  Let  all  the  high-shoul- 
dered, white-collared  young  sea  gents  in  the  ocean 
come  aboard  if  they  wanted  to !  Which  I  guess 
they  did  want  to — climbing  up  and  hanging  onto 
and  pulling  down  the  foot  of  her  main-sail  and 
splashing  into  the  bottom  of  the  cobble  till  it  was 
deep  enough  there  for  me  to  wash  my  feet  in — if 
I  wanted  to,  which  I  didn't.  I  was  tired  getting 
my  feet  wet.  And  they  soaked  me  higher  than 
my  feet,  and  they  soaked  the  skipper — soaked 
him  good  because  he  couldn't  duck  away  from  the 
tiller,  and  over  the  rail  behind  him  they  made 
little  rainbows  that  came  and  went  like  moving 
pictures. 

"She  do  rowl,  th'  auld  Venus,  doon't  she?" 
says  the  skipper.  "But  it  suits  her  rare,  aye. 
An'  a  gude  trip  vy'age,  aye." 

"Gude  vy'age,  iss,"  says  Jarge,  who's  just  then 
coming  up  the  cabin  ladder.  "Sax  an'  a  score 
o'  boxes  whitin's  an'  a  score  boxes  'addicks  in 
hold.  An'  two  score  fine  cod  on  ice.  AnJ  there 
be  sole  an*  plaice  an'  th'  miscellan'ous." 

"Do  you  make  more  than  before  the  war?" 
I  says. 

208 


The  North  Sea  Men 

"Think  'ee  us  'd  gae  oot  there  on  auld  market  ?" 
says  Jarge  indignant-like.  "Nae,  nae — war  times, 
war  market !" 

"But  a  tough  thing,  the  war,"  I  says. 

"O  aye,  most  evil  thing  war.  But  war  hae  its 
compensations.  Aye,  its  compensations." 

The  skipper  butts  in  to  point  to  a  low  line  on  the 
horizon,  meaning  it  is  land  ahead.  And  it  looked 
good  to  me,  and  to  Lefty  and  Mr.  Rush  when  I 
call  "Land  O!"  and  they  come  running  up  on 
deck. 

Mr.  Rush  makes  a  speech  on  the  feelings  of  a 
man  who  is  seeing  land  for  the  first  time  after  a 
perilous  cruise,  but  nobody's  listening  because 
we're  all  the  rest  of  us  watching  a  bunch  of  mine 
sweepers  and  patrols  steaming  back  and  forth. 

"Those  fuhlas  in  there,"  I  says  to  Mr.  Rush 
busting  in  on  his  speech — "those  fuhlas  hookin' 
into  those  mines,  and  these  fishing  fuhlas  aboard 
out  here — how  about  them  for  doing  their  share 
of  winning  the  war  ?" 

Which  makes  Mr.  Rush  say  to  the  skipper 
that  of  course  they  have  their  medals  to  show  for 
their  work,  and  the  skipper  looking  at  him  as- 
tonished like  says  what  for  would  they  be  getting 
medals  ? 

"Why  you  are  heroes  too — why  not  ?" 

"Heroes?  Us?  Gie  ower  tha  foolin' !  Us 
209 


Hiker  Joy 

shoot  no  big  guns,  nor  wear  uniform,  hoo  can  us 
be  heroes  ?"  says  the  skipper. 

We  run  inside  the  mine  sweepers  and  patrols 
with  great  greetings  along  the  line,  and  past  a 
light-ship  where  the  skipper  steers  the  Venus 
close  enough  for  Lefty  who's  leaning  out  from  the 
fore-rigging  to  slap  his  cap  across  the  light-ship's 
stern  as  we  go  diving  by,  which  means  the  skipper 
is  feeling  pretty  good. 

A  row  of  corks  is  floating  on  the  water  outside 
the  harbor,  meaning  there's  a  net  barrage  under 
them,  and  through  the  barrage  we  go,  after  some 
official  guys  look  us  over,  and  then  in  and  up  to 
a  big  dock  where  a  lot  of  old  timers  begin  to  sing 
out  to  our  smacksmen,  What  ho  !  and  What  cheer  ! 
Auld  Jim,  or  Skipper  or  Jarge,  whoever  it  is,  and 
What  ho !  and  What  cheer !  our  fuhlas  hail  back 
to  them. 

Jarge  must  be  the  purser  of  the  smack,  for  we're 
no  sooner  tied  to  the  dock  than  up  he  goes  and 
when  he  comes  back  he  says:  "Power  an'  fowerty 
shillin's  for  whitin's  an'  gude  price  for  'addicks," 
and  goes  on  to  reckon  up  what  they  will  make. 
"A  gran'  v'yage,"  says  Jarge.  "Twelve  pund 
apiece  us  '11  hae  to  send  hame.  Most  evil  thing 
is  war,  but  it  has  its  compensations,  iss." 

Then  he  goes  off  to  some  quiet  hiding  place 
to  write  a  line  to  the  missis,  and  Mr.  Rush  goes 

2IO 


The  North  Sea  Men 

off  to  hear  more  of  his  niece.  The  rest  of  us  go 
on  to  a  pub  where  is  one  of  the  longest  bars  I  ever 
see  and  Fm  all  set  to  buy  a  few  rounds  when  I 
spot  a  sign  on  the  wall :  Treating  Not  Allowed ! 
—the  same  over  a  lot  of  print  saying  how  it's  a 
violation  of  the  Defense  of  the  Realm  or  some  other 
War  Act  to  treat  anybody  to  a  drink;  and  I'm 
'most  discouraged  till  Jim  points  out  another  sign 
on  the  wall  almost  alongside,  and  this  other  sign 
is  in  bigger  and  blacker  letters,  and  it  reads: — 
ALOUD  ?  So  we  have  at  the  main  business  of 
the  day,  which  is  to  say  farewell  to  each  other 
with  the  usual  fitting  ceremonies. 

And  behind  the  bar  when  we  march  up  to  it 
abreast  are  eight  husky  bar  maids  and  it  was  a 
joy  to  see  them  work.  After  about  six  rounds, 
Auld  Jim  leans  over  and  whispers:  "Thee'll  be  a 
Fylie  lass?"  to  the  one  nearest  him.  And  she 
must  Ve  said  iss  she  was,  because  Auld  Jim  smiles 
and  says:  "'Aw  knawed  a  Fylie  lass  yince — 
Ah-h  !"  and  starts  in  to  sing: 

"Aw  kissed  ma  lass  an*  aw  said  Good-bye, 
Aw  kissed  her  fair — Good-bye,  Good-bye ! 
An*  says — *  Sweetheart,  aw  'm  garn  awye,' 
Aw  says  to  her — 'Good-bye,  Good-bye!' 


She  cried  on  ma  breast  while  aw  hove 
*Whativer/  says  she,  'is  a  lass  to  do 
When  her  lad's  awye  ?    Aw  Ve  nowt  but  'oo ! 
An*  aw  Ve  no  ither  lad  but  'oo !' 

211 


Hiker  Joy 

An*  she  yince  mair  begins  to  cry, 
An*  aw  yince  mair  do  kiss  good-bye — 
'Good-bye,  Good-bye,  an*  mind  'ee  Sweet, 
While  aw  'm  awye  wi*  tha  Nowthe  Sea  fleet!' 

An*  aw  kissed  ma  lass,  a  Fylie  lass, 
Aw  kissed  ma  lass  a  sweet  Good-bye," 

sings  Auld  Jim. 

"Ah-h,"  says  the  skipper — "lasses  an'  kisses — 
a  rare  song  that !  Gie  it  t'  we  yince  mair,  Auld 
Jim !" 

But  Jarge  is  out  at  the  door  yelling  to  them  for 
a  couple  of  ootrageous  roysterers  and  have  they 
no  thought  of  their  cargo  of  fish  and  the  buyers 
on  the  dock  waiting  ? 

And  so  after  one  last  one  we  parted. 

"Great  fuhlas,"  I  said  to  Mr.  Rush  when  we 
met  at  the  hotel.  "Let  'em  live  three  or  four 
hundred  years  ago  and  Drake  or  Hawkins,  or 
some  other  chartered  pirate  'd  been  grabbin' 
them  on  sight  an'  sendin'  them  to  lead  a  boardin' 
party  in  their  first  sea  fight." 

"Yes,"  says  Mr.  Rush.  "Great  men  in  their 
way.  But  the  breed  is  dying — not  many  left 
these  days." 

And  then  he  goes  on  to  tell  how  he's  got  word 
from  his  niece.  She's  safe  but  married.  "Mar- 
ried already ! — to  a  Lieutenant  Nugent  of  our 
navy,  and  they're  living  at  a  naval  base  down  the 
coast!" 

212 


The  North  Sea  Men 

"Nugent?  It's  kinda  sudden,  but  she's  mar- 
ried to  a  reg'lar  guy,"  I  told  him.  "Don't  yuh 
think  we  oughta  hustle  along  an'  visit  'em  ?" 

And  we  do. 


213 


London  Lights 


THIS  is  me,  Hiker,  talking  again. 
After  I  call  Mr.  Nugent  and  he  goes  bounc- 
ing out  on  deck,  I  go  out  and  have  a  look.  It's 
land  all  right.  All  I  been  seeing  for  a  month  is 
the  yocean  and  the  sky,  but  here's  the  greeniest 
grass,  and  trees,  and  there's  houses  rising  up  on 
the  side  of  a  hill-like — no  47-story  ones  like  in 
little  old  New  York,  but  houses  I  could  see  had 
people  living  in  'em  by  the  smoke  coming  out  the 
chimneys — no  black  smudgy  steamer  smoke  com- 
ing out  in  puffs-like,  but  reg'lar  smoke  floating 
up  in  blue  curly-gigs  and  saying  plain:  "Gotta 
be  gettin*  ready  a  bite  to  eat — the  old  man'll 
be  home  soon." 

"If  I  was  ony  back  in  Brooklyn!"  I  say,  and 
then  give  myself  the  laugh,  for  s'posing  I  was 
back  there,  where'd  be  anybody  waiting  for  me  to 
come  home  ? 

We  come  steaming  up  to  what  they  call  the 
barrage,  and  they  let  us  through,  and  then  we 
go  on  up  to  what  they  call  moorings,  and  Mr. 
Nugent  speaks  to  the  captain,  who  smiles  and 
says:  "Go  ahead — beat  it!"  and  away  goes 
Mr.  Nugent  in  the  motor  dory  to  see  his  wife. 

214 


London  Lights 

Seeing  him  go  makes  me  want  to  go  ashore 
and  have  a  run  around  too,  but  being  what  they 
call  an  alien  and  having  no  passport,  I  can't  go 
till  what  they  call  the  yauthorities  look  me  over, 
which  they  do  next  morning.  The  Exec  takes 
me  to  where  a  guy  in  yuniform  with  a  lot  of 
papers  and  a  bottle  of  ink  and  holding  a  pen  in 
the  yair  asts  me  where  I'm  born  and  how  old  am 
I,  and  what  do  I  do  for  a  living,  and  am  I  married 
or  single,  and  I  say:  "Married  or  single?  Take 
a  peek  at  me  'n'  my  age  and  lay  off  the  foolish 
questions,  will  yuh  ? "  And  he  says  do  I  know 
who  I'm  talking  to,  and  I  say  no  I  don't  and  who 
is  it  ? 

He  stands  up,  I  dunno  why,  'less  it's  so  he  can 
whang  his  fist  down  harder  on  the  table,  and  says : 
"Arnswer  the  questions  as  I  put  them,  or  take 
the  consequences !" 

"Slip  'em  to  me,  whatever  they  are,  if  yuh 
got  any  more  foolish  questions  like  that,"  I  says, 
and  when  I  do  he  calls  in  another  guy  and  they're 
gettin'  ready  to  hang  me  or  something,  when  I 
look  up  and  standing  in  the  doorway  is  a  party 
that  ony  for  a  lot  o'  new  clothes  and  lookin'  like 
he's  lately  had  a  hot  bath  and  a  shave  and  hair-cut, 
I'd  say  was  Bill  Green. 

I  take  another  look  and  it  is  Bill,  and  he  has 
another  peek  at  me  and — "I  heard  you  were  here. 

215 


Hiker  Joy 

An'  now,  you  pigeon-toed  little  rabbit,  where 
you  been  all  this  time,  and  how're  yuh  feelin'  ? " 
he  says. 

"I  been  a  lotta  places  an*  I'm  feelin'  great," 
I  says,  "ony  here's  a  coupla  foolish  guys  asking 
questions." 

Bill  squares  me  easy  with  the  two  guys,  because 
he's  secret  service  and  they're  ony  police,  and  I 
tell  them  my  wife's  mother  ain't  got  any  maiden 
name  and  a  few  more  things  like  that,  and  then 
Bill  and  me  head  back  for  the  ship,  but  we  don't 
go  aboard,  because  all  the  gobs  'n'  officers  are 
standing  stiff  up  like  they  got  a  shock,  and  when 
we  move  closer  to  see  what's  doing,  a  gob  goes 
"S-s-st!"  to  us,  and  we  see  a  guy  in  a  swell 
yuniform  coming  down  what  they  call  the  gang- 
way. 

"This  must  be  that  King  I  yused  to  read  about," 
I  think. 

But  it  ain't.  It's  a  nadmiral,  and  there's  a 
movie  man  with  him.  "Now  Admiral,  you're 
pacing  the  deck  of  your  ship,"  the  movie  man  is 
saying,  "and  the  yenemy  fleet  is  somewhere  off 
in  the  offin'.  Very  well.  Now,  walk  a  few  paces 
that  way  and  a  few  paces  this  way,  please." 

The  admiral  begins  to  pace,  but  he  ain't  paced 
far  when  the  movie  man  is  saying:  "Not  so  fast, 
Admiral,  not  so  fast.  Try  it  again — sl-o-o-w." 

216 


London  Lights 

The  admiral  tries  it  again,  stepping  along  this 
time  like  one  o'  those  pall-bearers  to  a  funeral, 
ony  his  head  up  'stead  of  down,  and  he  has  to 
hold  his  knees  stiff  to  make  it  a  slow  walk. 

"That's  it,  that's  it!  And  now,  the  look-out 
reports  that  the  enemy  is  in  sight.  You  grab 
your  glasses — where's  your  glasses  ? " 

"Here,"  says  the  admiral. 

"No,  no,  no,"  says  the  movie  man,  "not  that 
kind !  Those  look  too  much  like  opera  glasses 
and  the  public's  been  trained  to  those  long  spy- 
glass what-do-you-call-'ems — telescopes.  Ain't 
yuh  got  a  telescope  anywheres  around  ?" 

The  admiral  sends  three  or  four  officers  off  and 
bimeby  they  come  back  with  a  telescope,  which  the 
admiral  is  putting  up  to  his  eye  when  the  movie 
man  says:  "Not  yet,  Admiral,  not  yet.  You're 
still  pacing  the  deck,  and  the  spy-glass  is  tucked 
under  your  arm,  but  you're  meditating  deeply. 
Slow,  sl-o-o-w,  remember — that's  it,"  and  he 
turns  the  handle  a  few  times. 

"And  now  an  officer  rushes  up  to  you  saying  the 
enemy  is  closing  in,  four  points  off  to — starboard 
is  it  ?  You  grab  your  spy-glass,  rush  to  the  rail 
and  have  a  look — a  long,  hard  look.  See — so: 
Now  let's  try  that." 

The  admiral  has  to  do  it  four  or  five  times  be- 
fore the  movie  man  shoots  it,  and  all  the  time 

217 


Hiker  Joy 

he's  shooting  it  he's  saying  how  it's  going  to  be 
shown  before  seven  or  eight  hundred  million  peo- 
ple in  thirty  or  forty  thousand  movie  houses  in 
the  next  coupla  months. 

There's  more  movie  stuff,  but  Bill  and  me  got 
enough.  We  go  back  up  town  and  Bill  says: 
"Some  good  dope  in  that  belt  o'  yours,  Hiker, 
about  a  gang  workin'  here  in  London.  Mr. 
Nugent's  on  his  way  to  London  already  and  we're 
goin'  to-night.  And  now  you'll  maybe  have  to 
meet  gen'rals  'n'  kings  'n'  head  porters,  so  come 
on  now  and  you  get  some  clothes." 

"The  best  yuh  got  for  this  boy,"  says  Bill  to 
the  man  in  the  store,  and  out  comes  a  suit  with 
a  white  collar  'most  to  the  ends  of  my  shoulders. 
It's  what  some  swell  school  kids  over  there  wear, 
and  the  first  suit  ever  I  had  on  that  some  other 
kid  hadn't  'most  worn  it  out  before  me.  A  cane 
and  a  young  stove-pipe  hat  goes  with  it. 

"D'y'  mean  any  boys  my  age  have  to  wear  one 
o'  those  tall  boys?"  I  ast  the  man,  and  he  says, 
why  surely,  and  I  ast  why,  and  he  don't  know  'less 
it's  because  they  always  have. 

But  Bill  knows.  "They  have  to  train  their 
heads  to  'em  young,  so's  bimeby  when  they  grow 
up  and  become  important  people  an'  have  to 
attend  great  functions  like  wheelin'  baby  carriages 
or  promenadin'  Sunday  mornin's  in  the  park— 

218 


London  Lights 

why  they'll  be  able  to  wear  'em  without  a  nexpres- 
sion  of  pain." 

"But  I  yain't  goin'  to  be  important  when  I  grow 
up,"  I  says,  and  pass  up  the  tall  boy  and  pick  out 
a  cap  which  I  can  sit  on  when  I  wanta,  and  that 
won't  be  bouncing  off  my  head  if  a  cop  or  anybody 
chases  me.  Besides,  some  day  I'll  have  to  be 
goin'  back  to  the  gang. 

We  go  to  the  hotel  then  where  I  meet  Lefty  Hall 
and  Bill  pays  the  bill  and  slips  what  they  call  a  'arf 
crown  to  a  guy  I  thought  was  a  nother  admiral 
or  a  gen'ral,  but  he's  the  head  porter,  who  he  says 
"Kew!"  to  the  'arf  crown  and  goes  out  and  flags 
what  they  call  a  keb  for  us. 

"Now,"  says  Bill,  "it's  Ho  for  the  London  lights 
for  you  'n'  me  'n'  Lefty,  Hiker — if  somebody 
don't  bust  our  heads  open  before  we  get  there," 
and  motions  to  the  keb  driver  and  away  we  go 
like  swell  guys  to  the  railroad  station.  And  we're 
having  supper  there  when  all  at  once  the  waiters 
begin  to  snap  out  the  lights. 

"Air  raid  comin',"  says  Lefty. 

"I  s'pose  you  been  through  a  few  air  raids?" 
asts  Bill. 

"I  was  one  time  in  Liverpool,"  says  Lefty, 
"when  a  coupla  Zeps  came  sailin'  over  the  old 
burg  and  blew  the  end  of  one  of  the  big  stone 
docks  and  the  ship  I  was  in  'most  into  the  middle 
o'  the  Mersey  River." 

219 


Hiker  Joy 

"Kill  a  lotta  people  don't  they?"  ast  Bill. 

"Lots  o'  wimmin'  'n'  children,  the  papers  said." 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  men — don't  they 
take  a  chance?"  says  Bill. 

With  the  lights  going  out  I'm  wondering  will 
we  have  any  check  to  pay.  "Don't  worry," 
says  Lefty.  "The  lights  over  the  cashier's  desk 
you'll  notice  ain't  put  out,  and  no  gettin'  outa 
this  room  without  passin'  the  cashier's  desk." 
Which  was  right. 

It's  dark  in  the  station  when  we  go  out  to  find 
the  cloak  room  where  we'd  checked  our  grips. 
Everybody  Bill  asts  don't  know  or  don't  answer 
till  he  touches  off  a  match  to  light  a  cigarette; 
and  when  he  does:  "Put  out  that  light!"  roars 
a  voice,  and  a  policeman  hops  onto  him  from  the 
dark. 

"Sure !"  says  Bill.  "And  now  old  top  where's 
the  cloak  room  ?"  and  we  chase  behind  the  police- 
man to  the  cloak  room,  where  it's  a  jam  of  people 
trying  to  tell  a  nold  man  and  a  girl  inside  the  win- 
dow how  soon  their  train  is  leaving  and  cawn't 
they  hurry  things  up  a  bit  please  ? 

Bimeby  the  girl  gets  tired  and  says  to  come  in 
and  pick  out  your  own  luggage,  and  we  go  in, 
and  the  girl  flashes  a  hand  light  ahead  to  where 
there's  about  five  hundred  bags  and  trunks  piled 
up,  some  of  them  looking  pretty  good. 

220 


London  Lights 

"Me  'n'  Bill  havin'  bought  swell  ones  yester- 
day, we  c'n  afford  to  put  temptation  behind  us, 
an'  take  ony  our  own,"  says  Lefty. 

We  keep  on  going  till  we  come  to  a  kind  of  a 
archway,  which  we  hear  somebody  say  is  bomb- 
proof. So  we  don't  hurry  going  through  there. 
It's  all  jammed  up  with  women  and  children  and 
soldiers  and  baby  carriages,  some  of  'em  having 
sandwiches  'n'  cocoa  'n'  beer,  and  everybody 
talkin'  pretty  low — when  they  talked  a  tall; 
except  a  soldier  who  has  his  back  against  the  wall 
and  his  kilts  stretched  out  before  him.  He's 
singin'  the  mournfullest  tune: 

"I  knew  a  tender  maid, 

I  lived  for  her  dear  greeting. 

I  knew  her  in  another  land  where  orange  blossoms  grow. 

And  in  that  other  land 

While  sunny  days  were  fleeting, 

I  learned  to  take  her  to  my  heart,  she  learned  to  love  me  so. 

Cold  northern  days  are  here, 

Their  chill  is  o'er  me  creeping. 

I  feel  my  old  age  coming  on,  my  heart  is  sad  and  low. 

Remembrance  brings  me  to 

The  verge  of  childish  weeping — 

O  Life  and  Love  that  once  were  mine !    O  Love  of  long  ago !" 

"There's  a  funny  sketch!"  says  Lefty;  till  we 
got  near  to  him,  when  Lefty  takes  it  all  back. 
One  of  the  poor  guy's  legs  was  gone,  and  the  arm 
the  other  side  of  him  ! 

221 


Hiker  Joy 

"And  his  eyes  ain't  seem'  any  more  than  their 
share,"  says  Lefty. 

"A  face  he's  got,"  says  Bill,  "of  a  man  who 
knew  something  more  than  fours  right  or  shoulder 
arms  in  his  day.  It's  a  great  and  glorious  thing 
though!" 

"  What  is  ?"asts  Lefty. 

"War!"  says  Bill. 

"Huh,"  says  Lefty.  "I  c'n  read  that  in  the 
papers  any  day." 

"But  that  poor  cripple,"  says  Bill,  "not  bein' 
able  to  read  the  papers  any  more,  he'll  never  know 


it." 


We  slide  out  the  archway  and  in  among  a 
coupla  hundred  other  people,  all  makin'  for  their 
train  too.  Somebody  bowls  over  Lefty,  and  we 
hear  him  yelling  from  out  of  the  dark. 

"Perils  o'  sea!"  hollers  Lefty.  "Perils  o'  the 
land,  I  say !  Dijjer  see  her  crash  into  me  starb'd 
quarter?  Gallopin'  by  she  went,  a  tall  bony 
female  and  she  haulin'  a  2OO-pound  trunk  by  the 
ear!" 

We  next  heard  Bill  falling  over  something. 
"Excuse  me!"  says  Bill;  and  about  a  minute 
later,  like  he's  thinking  to  himself:  "If  I  stay  in 
this  country  long  enough  I'll  maybe  some  day  be 
able  to  fall  over  a  bench  where  there  ain't  a  soldier 
ahead  of  me  an'  him  havin'  hold  of  a  girl !" 

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London  Lights 

Bimeby  we  get  to  where  the  train  from  London 
comes  backing  in.  We  kinda  half  see  and  half 
feel  our  way  through  a  door  and  into  what  they 
call  a  compartment. 

"The  trick  now,"  says  Lefty  while  we're  feel- 
ing around,  "is  to  keep  sittin'  down  till  yuh  find 
a  place  where  there's  nobody  sittin'  down  ahead 
of  yuh.  When  yuh  do,  it's  your  seat." 

We  find  empty  places,  and  other  people  come 
asking  through  the  door  is  there  any  spare  room, 
and  everybody  hollers  no  there  ain't,  but  they 
come  right  in  just  the  same  and  fall  over  every- 
body's feet  and  bundles  and  into  what  they  call 
a  corridor  where  there's  already  a  jam  of  mostly 
soldiers,  some  of  'em  lying  down  and  asleep  al- 
ready. Every  place  I  see  yet  is  jammed  mostly 
with  soldiers. 

It's  such  a  fine  moonlight  night  that  everybody 
is  saying  of  course  the  Zeps  or  the  Gothas  won't 
miss  the  chance  to  come  over.  Bimeby  the  train 
starts,  and  when  it  does  everybody  says:  "They 
cawn't  be  coming  to-night  then,"  meaning  they 
don't  let  trains  run  around  the  country  when 
there's  going  to  be  any  air  raids. 

We're  moving  along  and  I'm  wondering  is  every- 
body asleep,  when  I  hear  Lefty  talkin'  to  somebody. 

"You  wasn't  frightened  thinkin'  of  any  air 
raid  ?"  says  Lefty. 

223 


Hiker  Joy 

"O  no!"  says  the  other  voice.  "Though  I 
cawn't  sye  I  was  feelin'  'appy  specially." 

They  go  on  talking.  She's  a  lydy's  myde  and 
a  widder,  or  to  tell  the  hexact  truth,  'er  'usband's 
been  reported  missin'  on  the  westen?  front  for  a 
twelvemonth  now,  she  tells  Lefty. 

"I'd  call  that  as  good  as  bein'  a  widder,"  says 
Lefty.  "What  kind  was  he,  your  husband  ?" 

"O,  'e  wasn't  the  worst  there  was,  I'll  sye  that 
for  'im,"  she  says.  "Fond  of  'is  beer  I  might  sye, 
but  wot  man  is  without  'is  faults  ?" 

"You  got  the  right  idea  of  it,"  says  Lefty, 
"'cause  o'  course  there  ain't  none  of  us  perfect," 
and  goes  on  consoling  her  like,  till  bimeby  she  says: 

"Hi  halways  did  like  Hamericans.  Never 
afride  to  spend  a  few  shillin's  when  a  lydy  becomes 
acquainted  they  eyen't." 

By  then  somebody  says  we're  safe  from  any  air 
raiders  that  night,  and  draws  the  window  curtains 
and  lets  in  the  moon,  and  where  it  comes  into  our 
compartment  it  shines  on  a  big  hat  with  roses 
kinda  leaning  on  Lefty's  shoulder. 

I  watch  the  moonlight  for  a  while  and  the  coun- 
try sliding  by  under  it,  and  then  I  guess  I  fell 
asleep.  Anyway,  I'm  wakened  up  by  a  bump  and 
somebody  saying:  "Well,  we're  here,"  meaning 
we're  in  London. 

There's  other  trains  letting  out,  and  from  one 
224 


London  Lights 

of  'em  a  lotta  soldiers  are  coming  with  rifles  and 
brown  iron  hats  and  a  nextra  pair  of  shoes  and 
a  blanket  and  about  a  whole  kitchen  outfit  hung 
onto  'em  behind.  They  look  like  they're  wonder- 
ing where  they  are,  most  of  them,  when  some 
nifty-lookin'  Janes  step  up  in  a  pretty  swell 
yuniform  with  collars  'n'  ties  like  a  man's  and 
steers  them  off"  to  autos  and  busses. 

"They  must  be  what  I  been  readin*  about," 
says  Bill — "what  they  call  the  better  class  o' 
wimmin'  who  meet  the  trains  comin'  with  men 
from  the  front  on  leave  and  grab  'em  off  before 
the  wild  wimmin'  o'  London  can  grab  'em  first. 
Where's  Lefty?" 

Lefty  comes  along  with  the  lydy's  myde,  say- 
ing: "I  gotta  see  this  young  lady  to  a  taxi," 
and  adds  in  a  whisper:  "Slip  me  a  little  change 
will  yuh,  Bill?" 

Bill  slips  it  to  him  and  tells  him  where  to  meet 
us  later. 

Bill  flags  a  taxi  and  we  go  to  where  I  see  an 
American  flag  flying  and  a  guy  in  a  swell  yuni- 
form with  about  seven  rows  of  buttons  down  the 
front  and  behind  him  a  flock  of  kids  looking  like 
swell  bell-hops  in  more  buttons  when  he  opens 
the  door.  I  think  maybe  it's  where  the  King 
lives  and  step  back  on  the  porch  to  have  another 
look  up;  but  it's  our  flag  all  right. 

225 


Hiker  Joy 

Bill  slips  the  gorgeous  guy  'arf  a  crown  and  he 
passes  us  in  like  we're  important  people.  But 
that's  about  as  far  as  we  get  for  being  important 
people.  There's  a  dill  pickle  of  a  guy  in  a  navy 
officer's  yuniform  sitting  at  a  desk  who  eyes  us 
and  that's  all  when  Bill  says  we're  to  wait  for 
Lieutenant  Nugent. 

There's  a  door  leading  to  another  room  and  in  it 
is  two  gobs,  one  of  them  looking  like  he's  just  off 
a  ship  with  his  flat  cap  in  his  hand,  and  the  other 
guy  tying  up  a  bundle  showing  he  belongs  there 
and  looking  at  the  sea-going  gob  like  he's  wonder- 
ing who  let  him  in.  And  I'm  watching  them  and 
the  dill  pickle  when  I  hear  Bill  whisper:  "What 
y'  thinkin'  of?" 

"I'm  thinkin'  I'll  never  be  great  'n'  good  enough 
to  have  a  job  in  this  place,"  I  whisper  back,  and 
Bill  says: 

"That's  as  it  should  be.  Little  kings  'n'  foxy 
Prime  Ministers  'n'  sometimes  fat  Bishops  an' 
important  Captains  of  Industries  set  the  stage  the 
same  way — so  you  'n'  me  'n'  everybody  '11  absorb 
the  proper  amount  o'  veneration  before  we're 
admitted  to  the  Presence.  We  are  now  breath- 
ing the  air  of  the  Admiralty." 

Bimeby  the  captain  of  our  destroyer  comes  in, 
and  he's  a  great  scout — a  slam-bang,  scared-o'- 
nothing  guy  out  to  sea,  but  here  he's  like  he's 

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London  Lights 

afraid  to  cut  loose.  He  has  a  report  about  a 
wrecking  detail  and  their  fine  attempt  to  save  an 
abandoned  ship  he  says  to  the  yofficer  at  the  desk, 
who  looks  at  him  like  he's  saying  to  himself: 
"0  dear,  I  wish  people  wouldn't  bother  me  so!" 
and  chucks  the  report  on  his  desk,  saying:  "I 
shall  file  it." 

Our  captain  is  looking  kinda  discouraged  when 
another  officer,  who's  more  like  a  reg'lar  guy  to 
look  at,  comes  in  and  he  spots  my  captain  and 
when  he  does — "Hulloh-h  Jud!"  he  hollers,  and 
"Hulloh-h,  Dee,"  my  captain  hollers,  and  tells 
Dee  about  the  salvage  crew  and  First  Class  Sea- 
man White  saving  Nugent. 

And  Dee  says:  "Jud,  I  haven't  been  here  long, 
but  I've  been  here  long  enough  to  be  able  to  get 
the  true  perspective  about  things.  Saving  lives 
and  salvaging  ships  and  all  that  rough  sea  stuff  is 
all  very  well  in  its  way,  but  the  important  thing 
in  a  war  is  the  doings  of  the  staff  ashore.  Nugent 
and  White  and  that  bunch  are  all  right  in  their 
way,  but  you've  got  the  wrong  idea  about  their 
value." 

"But  dam  it,  Dee,  think  of  the  danger  they 
ran  !" 

"Danger?  Say,  Jud,  did  y'ever  think  of  the 
danger  we  run  here  ?  Did  you  ever  get  a  splinter 
in  the  seat  of  your  pants  from  revolving  too  care- 

227 


Hiker  Joy 

lessly  in  an  office  chair  ?  Or  were  y*  ever  almost 
run  over  crossing  Leicester  Square  by  a  cab  in  one 
of  these  demned  London  fogs  tryirig  to  make  a 
music  hall  ?  Tough  game,  I  tell  you." 

Our  skipper  asks  about  what  he  calls  the  top- 
side guy — could  he  see  him  ?  And  Dee  says : 
"Sorry,  old  top,  but  we  are  having  a  conference 
right  now  with  a  third  assistant  secretary.  And 
we  are  taking  lunch  to-day  with  a  cabinet  mem- 
ber's uncle — or  maybe  it's  his  aunt." 

"How  about  to-morrow,  Dee?" 

"To-morrow,  my  dear  chap,  is  a  most  sacred 
day,"  says  Dee.  "To-morrow  we  are  lunching 
with  the  Prime  Minister,  and  in  the  afternoon  we 
are  posing  with  the  King  for  moving  pictures,  and 
in  the  evening  we  have  a  most  important  dinner 
at  Guildhall.  Perhaps — let  me  see — on  the  after- 
noon of  the  day  after  to-morrow — say— 

"Say  Dee,"  says  our  skipper,  "you  know  they 
never  let  us  stay  in  port  that  long !  On  the  after- 
noon of  the  day  after  to-morrow  my  ship  will  be 
to  sea  again." 

"We  know  it,"  .says  Dee,  "which  is  why  we 
will  receive  you  then." 

"Oh— tell  'em  all  to  go  to  hell,  will  you?" 
says  my  skipper,  so  loud  that  the  dill  pickle  hears 
him,  and  he  revolves  in  his  chair  and  looks  after 
my  captain  going  out  the  door  and  says: 

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London  Lights 

"I've  a  jolly  good  mind  to  report  what  he  said." 

"Why  give  yourself  trouble,  old  dear  ?  Come 
and  have  lunch  with  me  and  forget  it,"  says  Dee, 
and  the  dill  pickle  bounces  up  and  Dee  lifts  up 
one  side  of  his  mouth  and  drops  down  one  eye 
at  Bill  and  me  going  out. 

We  don't  see  Nugent  a  tall,  but  we  get  word 
from  him  over  the  phone.  "We  ought  to  be 
able  to  clean  up  the  last  of  that  gang  to-night," 
he  says  to  Bill,  and  tell  him  where  to  meet  him 
that  night  and  what  time. 

So  we  go  out  and  drift  along  till  we  see  a  big 
soldier  in  kilts.  "Hi  there,  Scotty,  gimme  a 
light  will  yuh  ?"  says  Bill. 

"Scotty,  me  eye!"  says  the  soldier — "I'll  bet 
I  came  from  within  ten  miles  of  where  you  did. 
How  were  the  Giants  makin'  out  when  you  left  ? " 

"Oh,  the  same  old  cinch — startin'  off.  Where's 
a  place  to  get  a  good  drink  ?"  says  Bill. 

He  shows  Bill  a  good  place,  but  tips  him  off 
saying:  "Whiskey  ain't  what  it  used  to  be  before 
the  war.  Take  my  advice,  friend,  and  order  a 
double  whiskey  with  your  soda." 

Bill  does,  and  drinks  it. 

"Was  I  right .?"  says  the  soldier. 

"You  were,"  says  Bill,  "and  I  think  I'll  have 
another." 

"Another  double?" 

229 


Hiker  Joy 

"Double?    No;  make  it  a  triple,"  says  Bill. 

We  go  from  there  to  a  place  to  eat  where  Bill 
orders  a  pretty  good  layout  of  grub  for  all  of  us, 
ony  we  can  have  ony  so  much  of  whatever  we 
want  and  no  both  of  some  things  like  fish  and 
meat  together. 

"Any  law,"  says  Bill  to  the  soldier,  "from  us 
goin'  to  another  restaurant  and  havin'  another 
meal  on  top  of  this." 

"None,"  says  the  soldier. 

So  we  go  out  and  have  another  meal;  and  get- 
ting up  from  it  Bill  says:  "It's  a  tough  war, 
friend,  but  what's  to  stop  a  man's  solid  comfort, 
if  he's  got  the  price  ?" 

"Nothing — if  he  has  the  price,"  says  the  soldier, 
and  leaves  us  because  he  has  to  go  back  to  bar- 
racks, and  Bill  and  me  go  around  having  a  peek 
at  London  and  it's  certain'y  an  eyeful,  ony  about 
all  I  could  see  at  first  was  soldiers.  When  I  got 
more  time  for  it  I  see  there  was  other  people 
walkin'  the  streets,  but  not  at  first.  I  didn't 
know  there  was  so  many  soldiers  in  the  world. 

"The  fighting  in  France  must  be  over,"  I  says 
to  Bill. 

"No,"  says  Bill — "most  o'  these  soldiers  yuh 
see  belong  to  the  staffs.  The  people  on  the 
staffs  are  the  yimportant  guys  in  all  armies  and 
in  all  wars.  Anybody  a  tall  will  do  to  fight,  which 

230 


London  Lights 

you  c'n  see  by  the  prices  they  pay — five  cents  to 
a  dollar  a  day  for  good  fightin'  men.  But  to  keep 
the  fightin'  men  going,  to  tell  'em  who  they  gotta 
fight  an'  when,  V  where,  an'  knockin'  out  letters 
to  tell  'em  on  the  latest-model  typewriters — that 
takes  brains." 

Bill  tells  me  how  I  can  pick  out  the  staff  guys 
and  I  take  to  counting  'em  going  by,  but  they 
keep  coming  so  fast  I  give  it  up. 

That  evening  early  we're  bumping  our  way 
through  mostly  soldiers  and  a  lot  more  of  what 
Bill  calls  the  wild  wimmin'  o'  London,  which  no 
soldier  is  safe  with,  says  Bill. 

"Am  I  a  young  man  ?"  says  Bill.  "No !  Am 
I  good  lookin'  ?  No.  But  put  me  in  a  yuni* 
form,"  says  Bill,  "and  in  two  minutes  you'd  be 
walkin'  alone,  Hiker.  Even  out  o'  yuniform— 
look  at  Lefty !  Where  is  he  now  when  he  yought 
to  be  with  us?" 

They  were  grabbing  men  right  and  left,  the  wild 
wimmen,  till  bimeby  we  began  to  notice  there 
ain't  so  many  of  them,  nor  so  many  of  anybody 
else,  and  next  thing  we  notice  is  policemen  tear- 
ing along  on  bicycles  with  signs  on  reading: 
"Air  Raid"  on  their  chest,  and  "Take  Cover" 
on  their  backs,  and  blowing  little  whistles  while 
they're  tearing  along. 

Says  Bill:  "We'll  take  a  cab  to  the  place  where 
231 


Hiker  Joy 

we're  to  meet  Mr.  Nugent."  But  when  we  try 
to  flag  any,  they  whiz  by  without  even  a  look 
at  us. 

"We'll  take  a  buss,"  says  Bill,  but  what  they 
call  the  busses  went  by  like  fire  engines,  ony  no 
passengers  in  'em,  about  forty  miles  a  nour, 
and  Bill  lookin'  at  the  size  of  them  says  he  won- 
ders what'll  happen  if  they  bump  into  something 
their  own  tonnage  outa  some  side  street. 

"No  busses?"  says  Bill.  "Very  well,  we'll 
take  the  tube,"  meaning  the  subway.  But 
there  musta  been  about  two  million  people  beat 
us  to  the  tube.  We  tried  two  stations  and  both 
places  the  mobs  of  people  were  bulging  out  onto 
the  sidewalks  outside. 

"Well,  it's  a  fine  night  for  a  walk,"  says  Bill. 
But  not  too  many  walking,  we  notice.  After 
maybe  a  mile  we  pass  about  ten  people,  and 
eight  of  them  is  soldiers  with  a  girl.  "Where's 
the  seven  million  people  o'  this  town  gone  to?" 
says  Bill. 

Overhead  there's  searchlights  shooting  long 
alleys  of  bright  lights  across  the  sky.  We  stop 
in  what  they  call  a  circus,  meaning  a  square,  to 
watch  'em.  The  searchlights  go  out,  but  the 
banging  o'  the  guns  keeps  on.  We  find  the  hotel 
then  where  we're  to  pick  up  Lefty  and  have  a 
bite  to  eat,  but  we  don't  pick  up  Lefty  and  we 

232 


London  Lights 

don't  get  anything  to  eat  because  there's  no  lights 
in  the  eating  place,  which  is  in  the  middle  of  the 
hotel  with  all  glass  over  it. 

"No  'ealthy  place  to  be  in  with  bombs  droppin' 
about,"  says  a  man,  and  Bill  says  quite  right  old 
top,  it  ain't. 

There's  other  people  there.  We  bump  over 
'em  in  dark  places  when  we  try  to  walk  around— 
on  the  stairs  and  other  good  places  that  we  notice 
is  out  of  line  with  the  doors  and  any  of  the  low 
windows. 

We're  wandering  around  looking  for  the  hotel 
bar,  knowing  Lefty'll  be  handy  to  there  if  he's 
around,  when  we  hear  more  banging  of  guns, 
meaning  they're  firing  more  guns  at  the  Zeps  out- 
side. 

"Will  our  shells  reach  them  or  will  they  be 
wasted  ?"  ast  a  voice  in  the  dark. 

"Divvle  a  fear  they'll  be  wasted,"  says  another 
voice.  "If  they  miss  the  raiders,  they  will  drop 
fine  and  handy  to  any  loose  people  walkin'  the 
shtreets." 

"Serve  them  right — why  don't  they  stop  at 
home?"  says  a  woman's  voice.  And  "quite 
right!"  and  "'ear!  'ear!"  says  a  coupla  men's 
voices. 

In  the  middle  of  the  banging  comes  a  long  boom ! 
— meaning  it's  a  bomb. 

233 


Hiker  Joy 

"But  ony  a  little  one,"  says  a  voice,  and  it's 
Lefty's  voice;  so  we  poke  around  to  find  him. 

There's  more  what  they  call  barrage  guns,  a 
hundred  of  'em  maybe,  and  then  boom  !  boom  ! 

"Little  ones,"  says  Lefty's  voice  again,  talking 
like  a  nexpert  on  them.  "All  little  ones — none 
of  'em  over  sixty  pounds." 

"Only  sixty  pounds !  What  grand  luck  we 
are  in!"  says  a  voice  we'd  heard  before.  "Sure 
an'  I  don't  suppose  one  that  size  wouldn't  any 
more  than  blow  this  building  across  the  shtreet." 

He's  about  finished  when  there's  a  great  crasho ! 
It's  a  coupla  hatfuls  of  shrapnel  from  a  barrage 
gun  coming  through  the  glass  what  they  call 
the  canopy  over  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  door- 
way. 

There's  more  banging  of  guns  and  a  booming 
of  bombs,  about  one  bomb  to  maybe  five  hundred 
guns;  and  then  it  goes  quiet,  and  in  the  quiet 
somebody  says: 

"Do  you  think  they  will  return  ?" 

And  somebody  else  says,  kinda  discouraged 
like:  "They  are  reputed  to  be  fond  of  railway 
stations  and  this  hotel  is  quite  handy  to  one, 
you  know,"  and  she'd  hardly  got  that  out  when 
wha-a-ang !  and  wha-a-ng !  again  comes  right 
alongside  us,  meaning  a  coupla  hatfuls  of  shrap- 
nel 're  falling  onto  the  sidewalk  out  in  front.  I 

234 


London  Lights 

go  down  to  find  a  coupla  pieces  for  sooveneers, 
and  when  I  come  back  I  hear  a  girl's  voice  saying: 
"Where  I  live  we  have  never  had  an  air  raid. 
Do  you  think  I  can  honestly  write  home  now  and 
say  that  I  have  been  through  one?"  And  a 
woman's  voice,  sounding  like  she's  been  thinking 
it  over  says  slowly:  "Yes,  my  dear,  I  think  you 


can." 


And  next  I  bump  into  Lefty's  voice  again,  and 
the  voice  of  the  lydy's  myde  answering  him. 

"No  man  at  no  age  is  safe  from  'em — let  him 
be  and  we'll  go  on,"  says  Bill  when  I  get  back 
and  tell  him  about  Lefty;  and  from  the  porter, 
who's  standing  down  near  the  door  but  not  in 
line  with  it,  we  get  directions  how  to  go  to  the 
address  Mr.  Nugent's  given  Bill. 

We  find  Mr.  Nugent  with  half  a  dozen  other 
men  all  set  to  go  wherever  it  is  we're  going,  and 
we  start  out  in  two  big  autos  and  go  through  the 
streets  about  forty  miles  a  hour.  There's  police- 
men on  bicycles  telling  the  people  the  air  raid  is 
over  before  we  start;  but  somebody  must  Ve 
tipped  them  off  wrong,  because  we  ain't  hardly 
started  when  the  barrage  guns  begin  to  bust  out 
all  over  again. 

"Wouldn't  you  think  they'd  be  satisfied  with 
one  trip  a  night  ?"  says  Bill,  when  bo-o-om !  goes 
a  bomb  somewheres  a  good  ways  off;  and  then 

235 


Hiker  Joy 

Boom ! — one  not  so  far  off,  and  shrapnel  rattling 
onto  the  street  alongside  our  auto. 

That  was  all  right;  everybody  could  make  a 
funny  crack  about  the  things  that  don't  hit  us; 
but  a  minute  later  there's  a  crack  like  the  yearth 
busting  open  and  our  auto  is  bouncing  around 
like  a  boat  at  sea,  and  the  next  thing  we  go  into 
a  hole  in  the  middle  of  the  street  that's  just  big 
enough  to  hold  us  when  down  we  bounce  into  it. 

We  get  out.  The  hole  is  in  front  of  a  hotel, 
and  the  cement  stairs  outside  the  hotel  is  all 
shook  up  and  the  revolving  door  of  the  hotel  is — 
nobody  knows  where  it's  gone  to;  and  all  the 
windows  in  the  hotel  and  in  the  houses  on  both 
sides  of  the  street  is  smashed  for  a  block — clean 
to  the  roof. 

The  street  is  covered  with  broken  glass  and 
they're  carrying  dead  people  away  while  we're 
trying  to  get  our  car  out  of  the  hole.  But  we 
have  to  give  up  trying  'less  we  wanta  stay  there 
all  night ;  so  we  leave  it  and  hike — it's  ony  about  a 
mile  or  so,  Mr.  Nugent  says. 

All  the  time  we're  hiking  the  barrage  guns  and 
the  bombs  are  going.  We  hurry  along  and  bimeby 
Mr.  Nugent  stops  us  in  a  place  where  there's  a 
park  like  taking  up  most  of  the  space — with  a 
niron  fence  and  flower  bushes  all  around.  Mr. 
Nugent  has  the  right  house  picked  out  'n'  every- 

236 


London  Lights 

thing,  with  two  men  at  the  back  door  and  two 
men  at  the  front  door,  and  me  V  Bill  like  a  coupla 
skirmishers  with  Bill  hauling  out  a  nautomatic 
and  saying: 

"All  I  want,  Hiker,  is  a  crack  at  a  coupla  them 
when  they  come  running  out !" 

But  they  don't  come  out.  Nobody  comes  out. 
Everything  is  set  for  a  big  inning  when —  It 
was  the  real  explosion  of  the  night  come.  When 
I  come  to  I'm  under  a  pile  of  whatever  it  is  is  over 
me,  and  I  begin  to  dig  myself  out  saying:  "It's 
all  over.  All  London  is  blown  up  and  I'm  the 
ony  one  left  alive.  Poor  Bill  and  all  the  rest 
of  the  gang,  they're  gone !" 

I  take  a  look  around  when  I  get  out.  And 
there's  Bill. 

"You  little  rabbit,  you!  We  thought  we'd 
lost  you  at  last,"  he  says  when  he  sees  me. 

"Where's  the  others?"  last. 

"In  the  house,"  he  says — "what's  left  of  the 
house,  seeing  if  they  can  find  anybody." 

But  they  don't  find  anybody — not  alive. 

"We  could  all  've  stayed  at  home,"  says  Mr. 
Nugent  when  he  comes  out,  "and  it  would  've 
happened  just  the  same.  However,"  cheering 
up  a  little,  "they're  all  cleaned  up." 

"And  is  that  all  there  is  to  it — to  the  green  belt 
'n'  the  Brooklyn  gang  o'  bombers  ?"  I  says. 

237 


Hiker  Joy 

"That's  all,"  says  Mr.  Nugent,  and  says 
more  about  how  it's  too  bad  Bill  and  me  ain't 
wearing  a  yuniform — if  we  was  ony  in  yuniform 
we'd  be  getting  a  nofficial  batting  average  he 
says. 

"It's  all  right,"  says  Bill.  "Hiker's  too  young 
to  know  better,  and's  for  me — I  killed  a  coupla 
men  and  got  away  with  it.  Not  even  a  cop  steps 
up  to  say  I'm  wanted.  I  got  a  few  enemies  back 
in  New  York,  an'  I  can  see  now  all  I  gotta  do  is 
hook  'em  up  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  war  and  then 
go  kill  'em  off.  A  great  game,  war." 

There's  nothing  more  to  do  in  London  'less  it's 
when  Lefty  comes  around  to  see  Bill  next  morning. 
He's  looking  discouraged. 

"She  was  no  widder  a  tall,"  says  Lefty.  "Her 
husband  come  back  last  night — after  the  raid. 
And  he's  the  kind  of  a  guy  to  look  at  that  I  don't 
believe  ever  got  anywhere  near  any  firin'  line. 
Hid  away  in  London  all  the  time  I'll  bet  he  was. 
Anyway  he's  back  and  I'm  going  on." 

"O'  course  you're  busted?"  says  Bill. 

"O'  course,  Bill,  you  know  I  wouldn't  be  shy 
of  entertainin'  a  lady  while  I  had  the  price," 
says  Lefty. 

"It  was  booze  got  me,"  says  Bill.  "And  no 
mystery,  Lefty,  I  guess  why  at  our  age  you're 
a  North  Atlantic  cattleman  and  I'm  a  bum,"  but 

238 


London  Lights 

he  don't  forget  to  slip  Lefty  one  of  his  hundred 
dollar  bills  the  same  time. 

"Bill,"  says  Lefty,  "I'd  'a'  listened  to  more 
good  advice  in  my  time  if  ony  they  showed  the 
same  as  you  that  they  yain't  sore  on  me  while 
they're  givin'  it.  Out  o'  this  I'm  goin'  to  buy 
myself  a  pretty  swell  lookin'  cornet  I  see  in  a  pawn 
shop  winder  to-day.  And  then  it's  on  to  God's 
country  and  stay  there." 

That  night  Bill  V  me  meet  Mr.  Rush  on  the 
little  island  at  the  naval  base  where  Mr.  Nugent 
and  his  wife  live.  It's  a  great  place  where  I  had 
a  swim,  which  felt  pretty  good  because  it  was 
the  first  swim  I'd  had  in  a  long  time  that  I  didn't 
have  to  take. 

There's  a  little  beach  there  and  each  end  the 
beach  is  a  bunch  of  rocks  with  the  ocean  sorta 
breathing  in  on  the  sand  between.  Bill  'n*  me 
we  sit  there  and  count  the  breaths  like.  Out  to 
sea  there's  a  light-ship  winking.  There's  a  coupia 
mine  sweepers  too.  Sometimes  we  can  hear  their 
crews  talking. 

The  moon  comes;  which  makes  me  think  how 
'most  everything  happened  me  since  leaving  New 
York  happened  with  the  moon  somewheres 
around.  It  comes  poking  up  over  the  roofs  of 
the  town — kinda  yellow  and  a  little  lopsided 
'cause  it's  getting  old,  Bill  says. 

239 


Hiker  Joy 

Mr.  Rush  is  gone  to  bed,  but  Mr.  Nugent  and 
his  wife  're  sitting  on  their  pile  of  rocks.  Bimeby 
they  get  up  and  go  into  their  cottage.  Bill  turns 
and  has  a  peek  after  them.  "To-morrow  he  goes 
to  sea,"  says  Bill,  "and  to-morrow  night  this  time 
she'll  be  looking  lonely  and  weeping  out  on  that 
sea  where  is  all  she  loves  an'  all  she  dreads. 
To-morrow  he  goes  to  sea,  not  knowin'  will  he 
ever  come  back.  But  this  night  is  theirs." 

"What  d'  y'  think  of  it  all,  Hiker?"  says  Bill 
bimeby. 

"One  time  I  was  gettin'  kinda  tired  o'  bein' 
wrecked,  but  here  now  with  all  the  swell 
eats  'n'  sleeps  comin'  to  us — pretty  soft!"  I 
says. 

"Feet  of  a  boy — do  they  ever  grow  weary?" 
says  Bill.  "I  look  at  you,  Hiker,  an'  the  weight 
of  my  age — and  it  may  be  my  sins — lies  heavy  on 
me,"  and  goes  to  reciting  some  poetry  which  he 
says  he  read  one  time  in  the  Yastor  Libry,  but 
which  I  think  he  doped  out  himself.  Bimeby  he 
hauls  out  his  pipe  and  sits  there  and  smokes  and 
smokes,  and  when  he  gets  to  smoking  a  long  time 
without  acting  like  he  wants  to  talk,  I  know  its 
time  for  me  to  leave.  And  so  I  go  into  the  swell 
hotel  and  to  bed. . 

And  from  my  bed  I  can  see  him  stuck  up  on 
the  top  rock  under  the  moon,  watching  it  climb 

240 


II 

c  2 

O  .a 
G 

's 


<u 

_G 


London  Lights 

and  the  shine  of  it  on  the  water  and  the  winking 
little  lights  out  to  sea,  I  s'pose. 

I  dunno  how  long  he  stayed;  but  a  lot  longer 
than  I  stayed  awake,  I  know,  me  lying  there  and 
the  surf  rolling  in  and  singing  me  to  sleep,  and 
making  me  feel  pretty  good.  If  ony  the  gang  was 
somewheres  around  to  be  having  a  share  of  it. 
But  a  fuhla  can't  have  it  all  soft. 


241 


Finny 


WHEN  Bill  hands  back  what  I  wrote  so  far 
I  notice  he's  put  in  more  spelling  an' 
what  they  call  grammar  towards  the  yend  than 
in  the  beginning  and  I  ast  him  why,  and  he  says: 

"In  the  beginnin'  I  had  to  give  what  I  s'pose 
I  gotta  call  your  style  a  chance.  But  there's 
such  a  thing  as  too  much  style,  so  I  eased  yours 
off  a  little  as  we  went  on." 

"What's  that  style  stuff?"  I  says. 

"The  litry  umpires  've  written  many  books 
on  what  style  is,  but  no  two  of  'em  're  yet  agreed 
on  what  it  is,"  says  Bill.  "But  if  yuh  force  me 
I'd  say  a  nauthor's  style  is  his  way  of  puttin' 
his  story  over — an'  if  he's  got  any  way  a  tall  of 
his  own  it's  maybe  better  for  him  to  use  that  way 
than  copy  somebody  else's  that  don't  come  nach- 
ral  to  him.  You  write  like  you  talk  an'  sometimes 
your  talk  is  fierce,  but  it's  your  own  way  an'  don't 
let  me  or  anybody  else  kid  yout  of  it.  It'll  keep 
yout  of  a  lotta  respectable  circulatin'  an'  college 
libraries,  meanin'  there'll  be  a  lotta  kids  who 
won't  be  clubbed  into  readin'  yuh  whether  they 
want  to  or  not,  which  is  no  great  harm  to  you, 
meanin'  they  maybe  won't  be  heavin'  bricks  at 

242 


Finny 

yuh  when  they  grow  up  an'  realize  what  was  done 
to  'em  when  they  were  young  V  defenseless." 

"Then  it's  all  right  for  me  to  write  more  ?" 

"Oh  Lord!"  says  Bill.  "Take  men  puttin' 
up  a  buildin'  or  tearin'  it  down  or  hangin'  paper 
or  shovelin'  coal,  an'  most  any  of  'em  know  when 
they're  done.  But  a  nauthor  or  a  norator !  You 
take  orators  talkin'  politics  an'  religion,  an' 
German  atrocities  an'  the  yearth  is  flat  or  it  ain't 
flat,  an'  most  any  of  'em  know  how  to  keep  goin', 
but  about  one  in  fifty  when  to  stop.  Authors 
the  same.  You  started  out  to  tell  about  a  gang 
o'  German  bombers  an'  a  green  belt,  an'  yuh've 
killed  off  all  the  bombers  an'  slipped  the  belt  on 
to  the  right  people,  ain't  yuh  ?  An'  the  nearest 
fuhla  an'  girl  to  a  hero  an'  herrin' — well,  they're 
married  ain't  they  ?  All  right !  Then  what  more 
is  there  to  say?" 

"But  a  lotta  other  intrestin'  things  hap- 
pened." 

"  There's  intrestin'  things  happenin'  'most 
anywheres  'most  anytime,  but  what  they  gotta 
do  with  the  story  is  what  a  nauthor's  got  to  look 
out  for.  Those  French  sailors  who  drifted  into 
the  naval  base  the  yother  day  to  repair  their 
ship  have  a  great  word  for  when  a  thing  is  done— 
ever  hear  it  ?" 

"Oh,  I  heard  it.     How  d'  y'  spell  it  ?" 

243 


Hiker  Joy 

"It's  tough  enough,"  says  Bill,  "to  be  listenin' 
to  French  words  without  havin'  to  spell  'em.  Spell 
it  to  suit  yourself." 

Bill  being  my  what  he  calls  litrjr  adviser  I 
gotta  do  as  he  says,  so  here  goes: 

FINNY 


244 


MTURN  TO  DESK 


BORROWED 


LOAN  DEPT. 


renewed. 
Renewed  boob  are  subjecttoiediate  recall. 


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Berkeley 


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